Silent Hearth Part 3

Part III: July to August

Chapter 9

The business merger proposal sat on Haden's desk like an unexploded bomb. Less control, more profit. The modern architectural dilemma. Lars had left it there before departing for a two-week vacation, conveniently removing himself from the immediate fallout of Haden's decision.

July had brought a heat wave to Thornbury, the kind that made Georgian Bay sparkle like a mirror and turned the town into a tourist haven. Normally Haden enjoyed summer's energy—the visitors, the festivals, the sense of the town coming fully alive after winter's hibernation. This year, however, he moved through it all in a fog of professional uncertainty and personal anticipation.

Kaja's departure for Oslo was now just weeks away. The preparations were well underway—visa secured, accommodations arranged, studio projects completed or delegated to Maren, who would manage the business in her absence. The family's "Heritage Threads" project had taken shape, with each member pursuing their own research and creative work while maintaining the connecting theme of their Scandinavian roots.

And now this: the final merger proposal from Jensen's firm, requiring his signature by the end of the week. The terms were generous, the opportunities significant, the potential for growth undeniable. And yet Haden hesitated, the pen untouched beside the document, his mind circling around implications both professional and personal.

His office phone rang, interrupting his contemplation. "Snjougla Architects," he answered automatically.

"Mr. Snjougla? This is Thomas Jensen."

The voice of the Toronto firm's founder was unexpected. Throughout the merger negotiations, they had communicated primarily through lawyers and intermediaries, meeting in person only twice for formal discussions.

"Mr. Jensen," Haden replied, sitting up straighter though the other man couldn't see him. "This is a surprise."

"I hope a pleasant one," Jensen said, his tone warm but businesslike. "I understand our final proposal is on your desk."

"It is. I was just reviewing it."

"And? Any concerns I might address directly?"

Haden hesitated, weighing his words carefully. "The terms are generous," he acknowledged. "The financial aspects, the staffing arrangements, the project allocation—all very fair."

"I sense a 'but' coming," Jensen observed.

"Not a 'but' exactly. More a... hesitation. A concern about creative direction and autonomy."

"Ah." Jensen's tone suggested understanding. "The fear that your design vision will be subsumed into corporate standardization."

"Something like that," Haden admitted.

"May I speak frankly, Mr. Snjougla?"

"Please do."

"I approached your firm specifically because of your design vision. Your commitment to sustainability, your integration of Scandinavian principles with Canadian contexts, your attention to how buildings interact with natural landscapes—these are precisely the elements my firm needs to remain competitive in today's market."

The directness was refreshing, Haden had to admit. "And yet your firm is known for corporate efficiency, for reliable delivery of projects on time and under budget. Those values don't always align with design innovation."

"They don't have to be mutually exclusive," Jensen countered. "The best architecture marries vision with practicality, innovation with reliability. That's what I believe our merged firm could achieve—your design excellence supported by our operational infrastructure."

It was a compelling argument, one that addressed Haden's primary professional concern. But there was another factor at play, one more personal and thus more difficult to articulate to a business associate.

"There's also the matter of timing," Haden said carefully. "My wife is departing for a three-month residency in Oslo next month. I'll be the primary parent for our daughters during that period. The merger would require significant time in Toronto, especially in the initial integration phase."

"Ah, family considerations," Jensen's tone remained professional but with a new note of understanding. "I wasn't aware of your wife's residency. Congratulations to her—Oslo is a significant opportunity."

"Thank you. It is indeed."

"If I may ask—what field is she in?"

"Textile arts. She's a weaver, specializing in contemporary interpretations of Nordic traditions."

"Interesting," Jensen said, and he sounded genuinely intrigued. "My wife is on the board of the Toronto Textile Museum. Perhaps there might be exhibition opportunities there when your wife returns."

The offer was casual but represented exactly the kind of networking benefit the merger might provide—connections that extended beyond architecture into the broader cultural sphere, potentially benefiting both his and Kaja's careers.

"That's very kind," Haden said. "I'm sure she'd be interested in exploring that possibility."

"As for the timing concerns," Jensen continued, "I believe we can be flexible. The integration doesn't have to happen all at once. We could phase it, with you maintaining primary operations in Thornbury through the fall, perhaps beginning more regular Toronto presence after your wife returns."

Again, the willingness to accommodate personal circumstances was both surprising and reassuring. Haden had expected corporate rigidity, not human flexibility.

"That would certainly address one of my major concerns," he acknowledged.

"Good. Now, is there anything else I might clarify or address before you make your decision?"

Haden considered for a moment. "Just one thing. Why us? Why Snjougla Architects specifically? There are other firms with similar design philosophies, some larger and more established than ours."

Jensen was quiet for a moment, as if considering how much to reveal. "Two reasons," he said finally. "First, the professional one: your firm has managed to maintain design excellence while achieving remarkable client satisfaction ratings. That combination is rare and valuable."

"And the second reason?"

"More personal. My mother was Norwegian—from Trondheim. I grew up with stories of fjords and mountains, with rosemaling on the walls and lefse at Christmas. When I saw your designs, with their subtle but unmistakable Nordic influences, they resonated with me on a level beyond the purely architectural."

The revelation surprised Haden. Throughout the negotiation process, Jensen had presented himself as the quintessential Toronto businessman—polished, cosmopolitan, focused on bottom lines and market expansion. This glimpse of personal heritage, of emotional connection to design elements most clients wouldn't even consciously register, shifted Haden's perception of both the man and the potential partnership.

"I didn't know that," he said simply.

"Few people do," Jensen replied. "In business, I've learned to lead with metrics and market analysis rather than personal affinities. But in this case, I thought you should know. This merger isn't just about market share or profit margins for me. It's about creating something that honors heritage while building for the future."

The words could have sounded calculated, a too-perfect echo of Haden's own design philosophy. But there was an authenticity in Jensen's tone that rang true, that suggested genuine alignment rather than strategic manipulation.

"Thank you for sharing that," Haden said. "It does put things in a different light."

"I hope a more favorable one," Jensen responded. "But regardless, I respect your need to make the right decision for both your business and your family. The offer stands until Friday, as stated in the proposal."

After the call ended, Haden sat at his desk, the merger documents still before him but now seeming less like a bomb and more like a doorway—one that might lead to new professional opportunities while still honoring his core values and accommodating his family responsibilities.

He reached for his phone to call Kaja, wanting to share this new perspective, to continue their practice of making important decisions through open communication rather than isolated contemplation. But before he could dial, his office door opened, and his younger daughter Hilde appeared, looking uncharacteristically distressed.

"Dad," she said without preamble, "Reyna's missing."

Haden's heart stuttered. "What do you mean, missing?"

"She was supposed to pick me up from my art class at the community center an hour ago. She never came. I called her phone but she didn't answer. So I walked to the music studio where she was practicing, but they said she left right after her lesson. And now Mom can't find her either."

The calm, methodical part of Haden's brain—the architect who solved problems through systematic analysis—immediately began constructing scenarios and solutions. "Did you check with her friends? Mika or Jonas?"

"Mom's calling them now," Hilde said. "She sent me to get you."

"Good thinking," Haden said, already reaching for his jacket. "Let's go home and coordinate with your mother."

The merger documents lay forgotten on his desk as he hurried from the office, Hilde trotting to keep up with his longer strides. The July afternoon was bright and hot, Thornbury's main street bustling with summer visitors, the scene incongruously cheerful against his rising concern.

At home, he found Kaja in the kitchen, phone pressed to her ear, her face tight with worry. She looked up as they entered, shaking her head slightly to indicate no news.

"Yes, please do call if you hear from her," she was saying. "Thank you, Mrs. Henderson." She ended the call with a sigh. "Mika hasn't seen her since their music lesson this morning. Neither has Jonas or Elias."

"What about her other usual places?" Haden asked, trying to maintain calm for everyone's sake. "The library? The coffee shop by the harbor?"

"I've called both. No sign of her."

"The lookout point on the bluff trail?" This was a spot Reyna often went to think or play guitar when she wanted solitude.

"I was about to walk up there when Hilde came home alone," Kaja said. "I can go check now."

"I'll drive around town," Haden decided. "Check the harbor, the beach, the park. You take the trail. Hilde can stay here in case she comes home."

"I want to help search," Hilde protested.

"You are helping," Haden assured her. "We need someone at home base, monitoring the phone, coordinating our efforts."

This reframing of staying behind as an important mission rather than exclusion from the action seemed to satisfy Hilde. "I'll make a map," she decided, "and mark off the areas you've searched."

"Perfect," Kaja said, already pulling on her walking shoes. "Call my cell immediately if she comes home or contacts you."

As they prepared to begin their search, Haden felt a familiar sensation rising in his chest—the tightness, the accelerated heartbeat, the slight dizziness that had characterized his anxiety attacks during the worst periods of their marital difficulties. He took a deep breath, focusing on the practical tasks at hand rather than the spiraling worst-case scenarios his mind wanted to generate.

"She's fourteen," he said, as much to himself as to Kaja. "She's responsible and smart. She knows Thornbury like the back of her hand. She's fine."

"Of course she is," Kaja agreed, though the worry in her eyes belied her confident tone. "Probably just lost track of time somewhere. Maybe her phone died."

"Exactly. We'll find her quickly, I'm sure."

They separated at the end of the driveway—Kaja heading toward the bluff trail that ran along the shoreline, Haden getting into his car to begin a systematic search of the town. As he drove, he called Lars, who was just returning from vacation.

"I need your help," he said when his partner answered. "Reyna's missing. Probably nothing serious, but we're organizing a search. Can you check the north side of town? The ice cream shop, the music store, that coffee place she likes?"

"Of course," Lars replied immediately. "I'm on it. Keep me posted."

The next two hours passed in a blur of increasing concern. Haden drove through every street in Thornbury, checked every public space where a teenager might spend time, spoke to shopkeepers and lifeguards and park attendants. No one had seen Reyna since her morning music lesson.

Kaja reported similar results from her search of the shoreline trails. Lars found no sign of her in the north side businesses. By late afternoon, with the July sun still high and hot in the sky, they reconvened at home to regroup and consider next steps.

"Should we call the police?" Kaja asked, her calm facade beginning to crack as the hours passed without news.

"Let's give it a little longer," Haden suggested, though his own anxiety was mounting. "She's only been gone about four hours. They might not consider that a true missing person case yet."

"What about Grandmother?" Hilde suggested from her position at the kitchen table, where she had indeed created a map of Thornbury with X marks indicating searched locations. "Has anyone called to see if Reyna went there?"

Haden and Kaja exchanged startled glances. In their growing panic, neither had thought to check with Kaja's mother in Meaford, about twenty minutes away by car.

"I'll call right now," Kaja said, reaching for her phone.

The conversation was brief, Kaja's expression shifting from hope to relief to exasperation in quick succession. "She's there," she confirmed after ending the call. "Has been since lunchtime. Apparently she took the bus to Meaford without telling anyone."

The relief that flooded through Haden was so intense it made him slightly lightheaded. He sank into a kitchen chair, the tension of the past hours draining away, leaving him suddenly exhausted.

"Is she okay?" Hilde asked.

"She's fine," Kaja assured her. "Grandmother said she showed up around noon, upset about something but not in any danger. They've been talking and drinking hot chocolate."

"Hot chocolate?" Haden repeated incredulously. "It's thirty degrees outside!"

"You know how Mom is," Kaja shrugged. "Hot chocolate is her solution to every emotional crisis, regardless of the weather."

"I'll go get her," Haden said, standing up again. "You two stay here, let Lars know she's been found."

"I'm coming with you," Kaja said firmly. "Whatever's upset her enough to flee town without telling anyone, she probably needs both of us to address it."

He couldn't argue with that logic. After ensuring Hilde was comfortable staying with Lars, who had arrived to help coordinate the search, they set off for Meaford in Haden's car, the air conditioning providing blessed relief from the July heat.

"What do you think prompted this?" Haden asked as they drove along the shore road, Georgian Bay glittering beside them.

"I'm not sure," Kaja admitted. "She seemed fine at breakfast. A little quiet maybe, but not unusually so."

"Could it be about your departure? It's getting closer, maybe the reality is hitting her harder now."

"Possibly. Or it could be something completely unrelated—friend drama, music stress, typical teenage stuff that feels world-ending in the moment."

They drove in thoughtful silence for a while, each mentally reviewing recent interactions with their daughter, looking for clues they might have missed. Reyna had seemed to be adjusting well to the idea of Kaja's Oslo residency, especially since becoming involved in the Nordic folk music program and developing her own connection to their heritage. But teenagers were complicated, their emotional landscapes shifting rapidly, often invisibly to adult observers.

Kaja's mother lived in a small but elegant house on the outskirts of Meaford, with a garden that sloped down toward the bay. As they pulled into the driveway, Haden felt a mixture of relief and apprehension—relief that Reyna was safe, apprehension about the conversation to come.

They found Reyna and her grandmother in the sunroom at the back of the house, a plate of cookies between them, mugs of what was indeed hot chocolate on the table despite the summer heat. Reyna looked up as they entered, her expression a complex mixture of defiance and embarrassment.

"You can't just leave without telling anyone!" Haden said before he could stop himself, relief giving way to parental anger. "We've been searching for hours, Reyna. The whole town is on alert!"

"Haden," Kaja placed a restraining hand on his arm. "Let's all take a breath first."

"I left a note," Reyna said, her voice small but defensive. "On the kitchen counter."

"There was no note," Kaja said gently. "We looked everywhere."

"I put it under the fruit bowl," Reyna insisted. "Right before I left for my lesson this morning."

"The fruit bowl that Hilde reorganized while making her lunch," Kaja realized with a sigh. "She must have moved the note without seeing it."

"That doesn't excuse not answering your phone," Haden pointed out, his anger fading but concern still evident. "Do you have any idea how worried we were?"

"My phone died," Reyna mumbled. "And Grandmother doesn't have a charger that fits my model."

"It's true," the older woman confirmed, speaking for the first time. "I offered to let her use my phone to call you, but she wanted some time to collect her thoughts first."

"And what thoughts are those?" Kaja asked, taking a seat across from her daughter. "What's going on, Reyna?"

Reyna looked down at her mug, avoiding eye contact. "I found the merger documents," she said finally. "On Dad's desk this morning when I went to get the permission slip he was supposed to sign for the music festival trip."

Haden felt a jolt of understanding. "The Jensen merger? That's what this is about?"

"You're going to take it, aren't you?" Reyna looked up now, her eyes accusing. "You're going to be working in Toronto all the time, just when Mom's leaving for Oslo. We'll barely see either of you."

The fear behind the anger was suddenly clear—not just teenage rebellion or attention-seeking, but genuine anxiety about family stability during a time of significant change.

"Reyna," Haden said, his tone gentler now, "the merger isn't finalized yet. And even if it does go through, I've negotiated terms that would keep me primarily in Thornbury through the fall, while your mother is away."

"Really?" Reyna looked skeptical. "That's not what the documents said. They talked about integration phases and Toronto office presence and all kinds of corporate stuff."

"You read the entire merger proposal?" Haden couldn't help being slightly impressed by his daughter's thoroughness, even while concerned about her snooping.

"Not every word," Reyna admitted. "But enough to see that it would change everything. And with Mom already leaving..."

"I had a conversation with Mr. Jensen this morning," Haden explained, taking the seat beside Kaja. "After those documents were prepared. He's agreed to a modified integration schedule that would accommodate our family situation."

"You believe him?" Reyna's skepticism remained evident. "Some Toronto businessman you barely know?"

"I believe he's sincere in wanting this merger to work, which means accommodating key personnel—including me. And yes, after our conversation today, I do believe he understands and respects the importance of family considerations."

"What did Grandmother say when you told her all this?" Kaja asked, glancing at her mother.

"She said I should talk to you directly instead of running away," Reyna admitted reluctantly. "But I was so angry when I found those papers. It felt like everything was changing at once, like all the progress we've made as a family was about to disappear."

"Oh, sweetheart," Kaja reached across the table to take her daughter's hand. "I understand that fear. Change is scary, especially when it comes in multiple forms at once. But running away doesn't solve anything."

"I know," Reyna sighed. "I just... I needed to think. To process. And Grandmother always helps me see things more clearly."

"She has that gift," Kaja agreed, smiling at her mother. "But next time, please make sure we know where you are. The note under the fruit bowl wasn't your best communication strategy."

"I'm sorry," Reyna said, looking genuinely contrite now. "I didn't mean to make everyone worry."

"We know," Haden assured her. "But actions have consequences, even when the intentions aren't malicious. We'll need to discuss appropriate responses to this situation when we get home."

"Am I grounded?" Reyna asked, resigned.

"We'll talk about it," Kaja said, neither confirming nor denying. "But first, I think we all need to have a more thorough conversation about the changes ahead—both my residency and the potential merger—and how we're going to manage them as a family."

"That sounds fair," Reyna nodded, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

"Good," Haden said. "Now finish your... hot chocolate... and let's head home. Hilde and Lars are waiting for news that you're safe."

As Reyna went to gather her things, Haden and Kaja exchanged glances, a silent communication passing between them. This incident had revealed vulnerabilities they hadn't fully appreciated—their daughter's deep-seated fears about family stability, the fragility of the progress they had made, the ongoing need for clear, consistent communication about changes that affected everyone.

"Thank you for looking after her," Kaja said to her mother. "And for your wisdom, as always."

"She's a sensitive soul," the older woman replied. "Perceives more than she can always process. Rather like you at that age."

"I was never that dramatic," Kaja protested with a small smile.

"No? What about the time you ran away to Toronto at sixteen because your father and I suggested art school might not be a practical career path?"

"That was different," Kaja insisted, though her smile widened at the memory. "I was making a principled stand for creative freedom."

"And Reyna was making a principled stand for family stability," her mother pointed out. "Not so different, really."

The drive home was quieter than the journey out, each family member absorbed in their own thoughts. As they approached Thornbury, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across Georgian Bay, Haden broke the silence.

"I want you both to know," he said, "that whatever decision I make about the merger, it will be with our family's wellbeing as the primary consideration. Not profit, not professional prestige, but what's best for us as a unit."

"I believe you," Kaja said softly. "And Reyna, I hope you know that my decision to accept the Oslo residency was made with similar considerations. It's not about escaping or separating, but about growing in ways that will ultimately enrich our family life."

"I get it," Reyna said from the back seat. "I do. I just... I worry that once things start changing, they won't stop. That we'll never get back to how good things have been these past few months."

"Change is inevitable," Haden observed. "But that doesn't mean it's always negative. Sometimes change opens doors to new possibilities, new connections, new understandings."

"Like your Heritage Threads project," Kaja added. "That wouldn't exist without the catalyst of the Oslo residency. Sometimes disruption creates space for creativity."

Reyna was quiet for a moment, absorbing this perspective. "I guess," she said finally. "But it's still scary."

"Of course it is," Haden agreed. "Change is always scary. The question isn't whether to avoid it—because we can't—but how to navigate it together, with open communication and mutual support."

As they pulled into their driveway, they could see Hilde waiting anxiously on the front steps, Lars beside her. The sight of their younger daughter, her face lighting up with relief as she spotted Reyna in the car, drove home the reality of their family bonds—complex, sometimes strained, but fundamentally resilient.

That evening, after the excitement had settled and appropriate consequences had been discussed (two weeks without independent town privileges for Reyna, plus additional chores), the family gathered in the living room for a more thorough conversation about the changes ahead. Haden explained the merger proposal in terms the girls could understand, emphasizing the negotiated accommodations for family needs. Kaja outlined her Oslo preparations and the communication plans they had established. Together, they addressed questions and concerns, acknowledged anxieties, and reaffirmed their commitment to maintaining family connections through the transitions ahead.

"It won't always be smooth," Kaja admitted. "There will be difficult days, miscommunications, moments when we all miss each other desperately."

"But we'll get through them," Haden added. "Because we're stronger now than we were before. We've learned how to talk to each other, how to listen, how to be present even when it's uncomfortable."

"And we have the Heritage Threads project," Hilde pointed out. "To keep us connected even when we're apart."

"Exactly," Kaja smiled at her younger daughter. "We're creating something together that transcends physical separation."

As the conversation wound down and the girls prepared for bed, Haden found himself reflecting on the day's events—the merger discussion with Jensen, Reyna's disappearance and recovery, the family meeting that had followed. It had been a day of revelations and realignments, of fears confronted and bonds reaffirmed.

Later, when the house was quiet and the girls were asleep, he and Kaja sat on the deck overlooking Georgian Bay, the July night warm around them, stars emerging in the darkening sky.

"What a day," Kaja sighed, leaning against him.

"Indeed," Haden agreed, putting his arm around her shoulders. "Not how I expected it to unfold when I woke up this morning."

"Are you still considering the merger?" she asked. "After everything that happened?"

Haden was quiet for a moment, considering. "Yes," he said finally. "But with clearer boundaries and expectations than before. Jensen's willingness to accommodate our family situation is encouraging. And the professional opportunities are significant."

"I think it could be good for you," Kaja said. "For your work, for your creative development. Just as Oslo will be for me."

"Parallel journeys," Haden observed. "Different paths but similar purposes."

"Exactly. And we'll navigate them together, even when physically apart."

They sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the moonlight on the water, listening to the gentle lapping of waves against the shore below. The day's events had been challenging, even frightening at times, but they had emerged with deeper understanding and renewed commitment to their shared path forward.

The merger proposal no longer felt like an unexploded bomb on Haden's desk. Instead, it represented one of many changes they would face together—some chosen, some imposed, all requiring the same careful attention to both individual needs and family bonds. The shield he had maintained for so long—the protective barrier of work and routine that had kept emotions at bay—had finally broken completely, allowing for genuine vulnerability and connection.

And in that breaking, he had found not weakness but a different kind of strength—the resilience that comes from authentic engagement with life's complexities, from facing fears rather than avoiding them, from building bridges rather than walls.

Tomorrow, he would sign the merger documents, accepting both the opportunities and challenges they represented. Tonight, he would simply be present in this moment, with the woman he loved beside him and their daughters sleeping safely under their roof, the family they had nearly lost and were now rebuilding with greater wisdom and care.

The shield had broken, but what emerged from behind it was stronger, more authentic, more capable of genuine connection than what had come before. And for that, despite the day's difficulties, Haden found himself profoundly grateful.

 

Chapter 10

Kaja accepted the Oslo residency with a single email that took her four hours to write. The family gathered for dinner, a rare occurrence that immediately put everyone on edge.

"I'll be gone for three months," she announced between the salad and the main course, as if discussing a trip to the grocery store. "From August to October."

Reyna dropped her fork with a clatter. Hilde nodded as if she'd known all along. Haden studied his plate with architectural precision.

"Three months is forever," Reyna said, her voice caught between anger and fear.

"It's not forever," Kaja replied gently. "It's an opportunity. A chance to work with other artists, to learn new techniques, to exhibit in a major gallery."

"But why Oslo? Why so far?"

"Because that's where the residency is. And because our family comes from there—it's a chance to connect with our heritage in a meaningful way."

"By leaving us?" Reyna pushed back her chair and stood. "That makes no sense."

"Reyna—" Haden began, but she was already storming from the room, her teenage indignation trailing behind her like a cape.

That had been months ago, in the early spring when the idea of separation was still theoretical, still distant enough to provoke strong reactions without requiring immediate practical responses. Now, in the heat of late July, with departure just days away, the reality had settled into their family routine—still challenging, still occasionally painful, but no longer shocking.

Kaja stood in her studio, surrounded by half-packed boxes and organized piles of materials. Some would go to Oslo with her—special tools, favorite reference books, personal talismans that supported her creative process. Others would remain here for Maren to use in maintaining the business during her absence. Still others would be stored away, waiting for her return in November.

The sorting process had been both practical and symbolic—a physical manifestation of the mental and emotional preparation required for this journey. What was essential? What could be left behind? What needed to be carefully preserved for future use?

"Mom?" Hilde's voice came from the studio doorway. "Mr. Olsen and I finished the protection charms. Do you want to see them?"

Kaja looked up from her packing, smiling at her younger daughter. "Of course. Come in."

Hilde entered, carrying a small wooden box carved with Norse designs—one of Mr. Olsen's creations. She set it carefully on the worktable and opened the lid to reveal four small pouches, each made of different colored fabric and tied with twisted cord.

"This one's yours," Hilde said, lifting out a pouch of deep blue fabric with silver embroidery. "The blue is for the ocean you'll cross, and the silver is for the threads you weave."

"It's beautiful," Kaja said, touched by the thoughtfulness. "Did you do the embroidery yourself?"

"Mr. Olsen helped," Hilde admitted. "But I designed the pattern. It's protection runes combined with waves."

"May I open it?"

"Yes. Each one has special things inside."

Kaja carefully untied the silver cord and opened the pouch. Inside, she found a smooth stone carved with what she recognized as the rune for journey, a tiny piece of fabric that she realized was from her first successful weaving as a student, a small photograph of the family taken at Christmas, and a sprig of dried lavender from their garden.

"The stone is for safe travels," Hilde explained. "The fabric is to remind you of your beginnings. The photo is so you don't forget what you're coming back to. And the lavender is so you can smell home whenever you get homesick."

The thoughtfulness of the gift brought unexpected tears to Kaja's eyes. "This is perfect, Hilde. Absolutely perfect. I'll keep it with me always in Oslo."

"There's one for everyone," Hilde continued, pleased by her mother's reaction. "Dad's has the rune for strength and wisdom. Reyna's has the rune for creativity and expression. And mine has the rune for vision and insight."

"What a wonderful way to keep us connected," Kaja said, carefully retying the pouch. "Even when we're physically apart."

"That's what Mr. Olsen said. That people have always found ways to maintain bonds across distances. That before phones and internet, they used symbols and tokens to feel close to loved ones."

"He's very wise, our Mr. Olsen."

"He says it's just because he's old and has seen a lot," Hilde grinned. "But I think it's more than that. I think he understands things other people miss."

"That's certainly true," Kaja agreed, returning the blue pouch to the wooden box. "Will you give these to everyone at dinner tonight?"

"Yes. Mr. Olsen says they should be presented with intention, as part of a proper farewell."

"Then that's what we'll do."

As Hilde left with her box of charms, Kaja returned to her sorting and packing, her heart both lighter and heavier after the interaction. Lighter because of the tangible reminder of her family's love and support; heavier because such reminders also emphasized what she would be leaving behind.

The decision to accept the residency had never been simple or straightforward. Even after the initial family discussions, after Haden's supportive response and the girls' gradual acceptance, Kaja had experienced moments of doubt, of questioning whether the professional opportunity was worth the personal separation. But as the preparations had progressed, as the Heritage Threads project had developed, as concrete plans for visits and communication had been established, her conviction had strengthened.

This journey mattered—not just for her artistic development, but for her sense of self, for her connection to her heritage, for her ability to bring new dimensions to her family relationships upon her return. The separation would be difficult, but it would also be productive, generative, ultimately enriching for all of them.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Reyna:

Ms. Larsson gave me a list of Oslo music archives and performances for October. Can we add them to our visit schedule?

The message was practical, forward-looking, devoid of the emotional resistance that had characterized Reyna's initial response to the residency. Another sign of acceptance, of adaptation, of finding constructive ways to engage with the coming change.

Absolutely, Kaja replied. Send me the list and I'll start researching locations and opening hours.

A moment later, another text arrived:

Also I finished recording my arrangement of "The Sea Widow" with the band. Want to hear it before you go?

Perfect. It's different from the solo version. More... I don't know. Hopeful maybe.

Kaja smiled at the description. Hopeful. Yes, that was the right word for how she felt about all of this—the residency, the family's response, the paths they were each exploring. Not blindly optimistic, not ignoring the challenges, but fundamentally hopeful about the growth and connection that could emerge from this experience.

The afternoon passed in continued sorting and packing, interrupted occasionally by practical questions from Maren about studio management during Kaja's absence. By the time she closed the studio and walked up to the main house, the July sun was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, casting golden light across Georgian Bay.

At home, she found Haden in the kitchen, preparing dinner with more confidence than he had shown in his early cooking attempts months ago. The renovation project connecting the studio to the main house was well underway, the foundation laid, the framing beginning to define the glass walkway that would eventually link their separate creative spaces.

"Productive day?" he asked, looking up from chopping vegetables.

"Very," Kaja replied, washing her hands at the sink. "The studio is almost ready for Maren to take over. And Hilde brought me the protection charm she and Mr. Olsen made."

"Ah yes, the magical pouches," Haden smiled. "She's been very secretive about those. Wouldn't even give me a hint about what's in mine."

"They're quite thoughtful actually. Mine has a piece of my first successful weaving, a family photo, a rune stone, and lavender from the garden."

"That does sound thoughtful. And very Hilde—practical magic, as it were."

"Exactly," Kaja agreed, moving beside him to help with dinner preparation. "She's planning to present them formally at dinner tonight. Part of a 'proper farewell,' according to Mr. Olsen."

"Speaking of farewells," Haden said, his tone shifting slightly, "Lars is organizing a small going-away gathering at the office tomorrow. Just the staff and a few local clients. Nothing elaborate, but they wanted to wish you well before you leave."

"That's very kind," Kaja said, touched by the gesture. "What time?"

"Four o'clock. I thought we could go together, then have an early dinner in town afterward. Just the two of us."

"I'd like that," Kaja smiled, leaning against him briefly. "A date night before the big departure."

"Exactly. One last evening of normalcy before the adventure begins."

The word 'normalcy' caught Kaja's attention. It was true—they had established a new normal over these past months, rebuilding their connection, creating routines of communication and presence that had healed much of the damage from their difficult period. And now that normalcy would be disrupted again, transformed into something different by her absence and their efforts to maintain connection across distance.

"Are you worried?" she asked, the question emerging before she had fully formed it in her mind.

Haden paused in his chopping, considering the question seriously. "Not worried exactly," he said finally. "Apprehensive perhaps. Aware that this will be challenging in ways we can't fully anticipate. But also confident that we have the tools and commitment to navigate those challenges."

"That's how I feel too," Kaja nodded. "Like we're as prepared as we can be, but there will inevitably be unexpected difficulties."

"And unexpected joys," Haden added. "Discoveries, growth, new perspectives that we can't predict either."

"Yes," Kaja agreed, warmth spreading through her at his balanced view. "Both challenges and joys."

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the girls—Reyna from band practice, Hilde from her visit with Mr. Olsen. The kitchen filled with the energy of family reunion, with stories of the day's activities, with the comfortable chaos of meal preparation.

Dinner that evening had a ceremonial quality—not somber exactly, but intentional, marked by an awareness that these shared meals would soon be temporarily suspended. The conversation flowed easily, touching on practical matters related to Kaja's departure, plans for the Heritage Threads project, Reyna's music program, Haden's merger integration schedule.

After the main course had been eaten and before dessert was served, Hilde retrieved her wooden box from the living room, placing it solemnly in the center of the table.

"Mr. Olsen and I made protection charms for everyone," she announced. "To keep us connected while Mom is in Oslo."

"What a lovely idea," Haden said, exchanging warm glances with Kaja.

"In the old days," Hilde continued, clearly reciting information from Mr. Olsen, "travelers and their families used symbolic objects to maintain bonds across distances. These charms contain items specific to each person, chosen to provide protection, connection, and remembrance."

With that introduction, she began distributing the pouches—the blue one for Kaja, a green one for Haden, red for Reyna, and purple for herself. Each recipient examined their gift with appropriate appreciation, discovering the thoughtfully selected contents.

"This is from my first architectural model," Haden said, holding up a tiny piece of balsa wood. "How did you get this?"

"I found it in your office drawer when I was looking for tape," Hilde admitted. "Mr. Olsen said it was okay to borrow it for the charm because it represents your beginnings as a builder."

"And this," Reyna said, holding up a guitar pick, "is from my first public performance. I thought I lost this years ago."

"It was in your keepsake box," Hilde explained. "The one under your bed. I borrowed it because it represents your voice finding its audience."

"You've been quite the detective," Kaja observed, amused by her younger daughter's thorough research.

"Mr. Olsen says meaningful charms require careful consideration and sometimes a bit of investigation," Hilde replied seriously. "I had to find objects that carried real significance, not just random things."

"Well, you succeeded," Haden assured her. "These are truly meaningful gifts. Thank you, Hilde."

"Mr. Olsen says we should carry them with us until we're all together again," Hilde instructed. "Especially Mom, since she's traveling the farthest."

"I will," Kaja promised, tucking her blue pouch into her pocket. "Every day in Oslo."

After dinner, as promised, Reyna played her band's recording of "The Sea Widow." The arrangement was indeed different from her solo version—fuller, more complex, with the addition of bass, drums, and keyboard creating a rich sonic landscape around the core melody. And yes, more hopeful—the bridge section she had composed, where the melody shifted from minor to major, was particularly powerful with the full band treatment.

"It's beautiful, Reyna," Kaja said when the recording ended. "Truly beautiful. You've honored the traditional elements while creating something fresh and meaningful."

"That's what Ms. Larsson said too," Reyna replied, pleased by the praise. "She thinks we should perform it at the fall festival when you're back from Oslo."

"I'd love to see that," Kaja smiled. "A perfect homecoming event."

The evening continued with dessert on the deck, watching the sunset over Georgian Bay, the July sky painted in spectacular shades of orange and pink. As darkness fell and stars emerged, Kaja found herself memorizing details—the sound of Hilde's laughter, the way Reyna tucked her hair behind her ear when concentrating, the solid warmth of Haden beside her on the bench. These were the memories she would carry with her to Oslo, the images she would conjure during moments of homesickness.

The next day passed in a whirlwind of final preparations—last-minute packing decisions, instructions for Maren about ongoing projects, arrangements for the house and family in her absence. The going-away gathering at Haden's office was warm and supportive, colleagues and clients expressing genuine interest in her residency and promising to follow her progress through the studio's social media accounts.

Dinner afterward, just Kaja and Haden at their favorite restaurant overlooking the harbor, had a bittersweet quality—a celebration of her opportunity combined with the awareness of imminent separation. They talked about practical matters but also deeper things—hopes for what each might discover during their time apart, fears about challenges that might arise, commitment to maintaining their hard-won connection across the distance.

"I've been thinking," Haden said as they lingered over coffee, the summer twilight extending the day well into the evening hours, "about coming to Oslo earlier than we planned. Not waiting until the girls' fall break in October."

"Really?" Kaja was surprised by this suggestion. "When were you thinking?"

"September, perhaps. A weekend visit, just me. To see your work in progress, to experience your Oslo life while it's still new and forming."

The idea appealed to Kaja immediately—a bridge between the initial separation and the family visit in October, a chance to share her discoveries while they were still fresh.

"I'd love that," she said warmly. "The first month will be intense—settling in, meeting the other artists, establishing my studio practice there. But by September, I should have a rhythm, something to show you."

"And the merger integration will be underway by then," Haden added. "I'll have a better sense of the Toronto schedule, the demands on my time through the fall."

"It's a perfect plan," Kaja agreed. "A checkpoint of sorts, before the longer stretch to October."

As they walked along the harbor after dinner, hand in hand in the warm July evening, Kaja felt a complex mixture of emotions—excitement about the adventure ahead, sadness about the temporary separation from her family, gratitude for Haden's support, and a deep, abiding love for this man who had worked so hard alongside her to rebuild what had nearly been lost.

"Thank you," she said, squeezing his hand. "For everything. For supporting this opportunity, for managing things here, for being willing to grow and change with me."

"Thank you for not giving up on us," he replied simply. "When it would have been easier to do so."

The next two days passed in a blur of last-minute preparations and emotional farewells. Mr. Olsen presented Kaja with a small carved wooden box containing soil from his garden—"A piece of Canadian earth to keep with you in Norway," he explained. Her mother came from Meaford, bringing traditional Finnish pastries for the journey and practical advice about living abroad. Friends stopped by with good wishes and small gifts.

Through it all, Kaja maintained a calm exterior, focusing on the practical tasks at hand while processing the emotional undercurrents privately. It was only on the final evening, as she zipped her suitcase closed and surveyed her bedroom—their bedroom—that the reality of departure fully hit her.

Three months. Twelve weeks. Eighty-four days. However she counted it, it was a significant separation from the life and people she loved. The opportunity was extraordinary, the potential for growth and development undeniable. But in this quiet moment, alone with her packed bags and racing thoughts, Kaja allowed herself to acknowledge the fear that had been simmering beneath her confident exterior.

What if the distance proved too challenging for their newly rebuilt relationship? What if the girls resented her absence more than they had anticipated? What if she discovered she preferred the independence of life in Oslo to the complexities of family life in Thornbury?

A soft knock at the bedroom door interrupted her spiraling thoughts. "Come in," she called, quickly composing her expression.

Haden entered, carrying two glasses of wine. "I thought you might need this," he said, offering her one. "Last-minute packing jitters?"

"Something like that," Kaja admitted, accepting the glass gratefully. "Just... processing it all."

"Having second thoughts?" His tone was gentle, free of judgment or pressure.

"Not second thoughts exactly. More like... anticipatory anxiety. About the unknown elements, the things we can't plan for or predict."

Haden nodded understanding. "That's natural. It would be strange if you weren't feeling some anxiety about such a significant change."

"The girls seem okay," Kaja observed. "Better than I expected, actually."

"They've had time to adjust to the idea. And they're invested in their own projects related to your journey—Reyna with her music research, Hilde with her mythology studies and protection charms."

"And you?" Kaja asked, studying his face in the soft evening light. "How are you really feeling about all this?"

Haden was quiet for a moment, considering his response. "Proud," he said finally. "Of you, of us, of how far we've come. Sad about the separation, of course. Nervous about single parenting for three months." He smiled slightly. "But mostly proud and excited for you. This is an extraordinary opportunity, Kaja. You deserve it."

The simple sincerity in his voice brought tears to her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered. "For everything."

They stood together in the bedroom they had shared for nearly twenty years, sipping wine and talking quietly about practical matters—airport logistics for the morning, communication plans for the first few days, household details Haden might need to know in her absence. Beneath the practical conversation ran deeper currents—love, trust, commitment, the invisible bonds that would stretch across an ocean but remain unbroken.

Later, as they prepared for sleep on this last night together for several weeks, Kaja found herself studying Haden's face, memorizing details she normally took for granted—the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the silver threading through his dark hair at the temples, the strong line of his jaw. He caught her looking and smiled questioningly.

"Just creating a mental image," she explained. "To take with me."

"Take this too," he said, reaching into his bedside drawer and retrieving a small package wrapped in simple brown paper. "I was going to give it to you at the airport, but now seems better."

Kaja unwrapped the package to find a leather-bound sketchbook, its cover embossed with a simple geometric design that echoed patterns from her weavings.

"Open it," Haden encouraged.

Inside, on the first page, he had written a quote:

"Distance is not measured in miles but in love. Hearts connected remain so, regardless of geography."

"It's beautiful," Kaja said, running her fingers over the embossed cover. "Thank you."

"I thought you might use it to record observations, ideas, experiences you want to share with us when you return. Or during our visits."

"I will," she promised. "Every day."

They fell asleep that night wrapped in each other's arms, the sketchbook on the bedside table beside them, the protection charm from Hilde hanging on the bedpost, the packed suitcases standing ready by the door. Outside, a summer storm moved across Georgian Bay, lightning occasionally illuminating the bedroom in brief, brilliant flashes, thunder rumbling in the distance—nature's own dramatic backdrop to this significant transition in their lives.

Morning came too quickly, the alarm pulling them from sleep into the busy reality of departure day. Breakfast was a family affair, everyone slightly subdued but making efforts at normalcy—Reyna discussing band practice plans, Hilde explaining her latest insights from Mr. Olsen's teachings, Haden reviewing the day's schedule with practiced calm.

The drive to Toronto's airport was filled with last-minute conversations—reminders about household matters, plans for regular video calls, discussions about the Heritage Threads project developments. At the international terminal, they found a quiet corner for final goodbyes before Kaja would pass through security to the departure gates.

"Call as soon as you land," Haden instructed, his calm facade slipping slightly to reveal the emotion beneath. "No matter what time it is here."

"I will," Kaja promised. "And I'll text updates during my layover in Reykjavik."

"I made you this," Reyna said, handing over a USB drive. "It has all my Norwegian folk song arrangements, plus some traditional recordings Ms. Larsson gave me. For when you need to hear something familiar."

"Thank you, sweetheart," Kaja said, tucking the drive into her carry-on bag. "I'll listen to it on the flight."

"And I made you this," Hilde added, presenting a small, carefully wrapped package. "It's a drawing of all of us plus the protection charms. So you remember we're all connected even when we're apart."

Kaja unwrapped the package to find a detailed colored pencil drawing—the four family members standing together, each holding their respective charm pouch, with lines of golden thread connecting them despite the physical space between the figures. It was surprisingly sophisticated for a ten-year-old's work, capturing not just physical likenesses but something of each person's essence.

"This is extraordinary, Hilde," Kaja said, genuinely impressed. "When did you learn to draw like this?"

"Mr. Olsen has been teaching me," Hilde explained. "He says I have a good eye for detail and meaning."

"He's right," Kaja agreed, carefully rewrapping the drawing to protect it during the journey. "This will have a special place in my Oslo apartment."

The final boarding announcement for Kaja's flight created a moment of suspended time—the inevitable separation now seconds away, the practiced calm they had all maintained beginning to crack under the emotional pressure.

"I love you," Kaja said, embracing each family member in turn, ending with Haden. "All of you. So much."

"We love you too," Haden replied, holding her tightly for a moment before releasing her. "Now go. Before we all start crying in the middle of Terminal 3."

With a final wave, Kaja turned and walked toward the security checkpoint, her carry-on bag containing the sketchbook from Haden, the USB drive from Reyna, the drawing from Hilde, and the protection charm with its carefully selected contents. The golden thread that had connected them was stretching now, extending across countries and oceans, but remaining unbroken.

As she joined the security line, Kaja glanced back one last time. Her family still stood where she had left them, watching her departure—Haden tall and steady, an arm around each daughter; Reyna trying to maintain teenage composure despite the emotion evident in her posture; Hilde openly wiping tears but also waving enthusiastically.

The sight lodged in Kaja's heart, a image she would carry with her through the journey ahead—not just the physical travel to Oslo, but the larger journey of artistic exploration and personal growth that awaited her there. The golden thread was cutting across distance now, but it remained strong, connecting her to home even as she ventured into new territories of creativity and self-discovery.

With that image sustaining her, Kaja turned forward again, presented her passport and boarding pass, and stepped into the next chapter of her story—a chapter that would unfold separately from but always in connection with the family she was temporarily leaving behind.

 

Chapter 11

Reyna disappeared on a Tuesday (of course). After eight hours of panic, phone calls, and Haden nearly calling the coast guard to search Georgian Bay, she was found at her grandmother's house in Meaford, calmly drinking hot chocolate.

"You can't just leave without telling anyone!" Haden shouted when he arrived, fear making his voice sharper than intended.

"Why not?" Reyna asked, her calm demeanor a stark contrast to his agitation. "Mom is."

The drive home was very quiet.

Kaja had been gone for two weeks. Two weeks that had felt like an eternity to Haden, who suddenly found himself solely responsible for two daughters, a household, and a business undergoing significant transformation. The merger papers had been signed the day after Kaja's departure, setting in motion a complex integration process that, despite Jensen's accommodations, still required more of Haden's attention than he had anticipated.

The first week had gone relatively smoothly—everyone making efforts to maintain the new routines they had established, the regular video calls with Kaja providing structure and connection, the novelty of the situation carrying them through initial adjustments. But as the second week progressed, cracks had begun to appear in their carefully constructed adaptation.

Hilde had developed trouble sleeping, claiming she heard strange noises in the night that hadn't been there when her mother was home. Reyna had become increasingly withdrawn, spending more time with her band and less at home, her responses to questions about school or music increasingly monosyllabic. And Haden himself had found the balancing act more challenging than expected—trying to maintain his professional responsibilities while also being more present and attentive at home, attempting to fill gaps left by Kaja's absence while also respecting the girls' need for space and autonomy.

And now this: Reyna's disappearance, the frantic search, the discovery that she had fled to her grandmother's house without notice, and the accusatory comparison to Kaja's departure that still rang in Haden's ears as they drove home along the darkening shore road.

"What you did today was completely unacceptable," he said finally, breaking the tense silence in the car. "Do you understand how worried we were? How many people were out looking for you?"

"I left a note," Reyna muttered, staring out the passenger window at Georgian Bay, where storm clouds were gathering on the horizon. "On the kitchen counter."

"There was no note, Reyna."

"I put it there. Right before I left for school. It said I was going to Grandmother's after band practice and would be home tomorrow."

"Well, no one found it. And you didn't answer your phone."

"It died. I forgot my charger."

The excuses were plausible but inadequate, and they both knew it. The real issue wasn't the missing note or the dead phone, but the deliberate choice to disappear without ensuring her message had been received, without considering the impact of her absence.

"This can't happen again," Haden said firmly. "Ever. If you want to visit your grandmother, that's fine. But you ask permission first, or at minimum you call to let us know you arrived safely."

"Us?" Reyna's tone was bitter. "There is no 'us' right now. Mom's in Oslo. It's just you, and half the time you're in Toronto or working late at the office."

The accusation stung, partly because there was truth in it. Despite his best intentions, despite Jensen's accommodations, the merger had indeed required more time in Toronto than originally planned. And yes, there had been late nights at the office as he attempted to manage both the integration process and his ongoing client projects.

"That's not fair," he said, though without much conviction. "I've been home for dinner every night except Thursday, when I had the Toronto meeting. And I told you about that in advance."

"Whatever," Reyna shrugged, the teenage dismissal masking deeper hurt. "It doesn't matter."

"It does matter," Haden insisted, pulling into their driveway. "Your safety matters. Your wellbeing matters. And yes, your feelings about the current situation matter too. But disappearing without notice is not an acceptable way to express those feelings."

As they entered the house, they found Hilde and Lars in the kitchen, preparing a simple dinner. Hilde ran to embrace her sister, relief evident in her face.

"You're okay!" she exclaimed. "We were so worried!"

"I'm fine," Reyna said, softening slightly in the face of her sister's genuine concern. "I was just at Grandmother's."

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" Hilde asked, pulling back to study her sister's face. "Dad called everyone in town looking for you. Even Mr. Olsen was searching the shore path."

Guilt flickered across Reyna's features. "I left a note," she said, but with less conviction now. "On the counter."

"There wasn't any note," Hilde said. "I was here all afternoon with Lars. We would have seen it."

"Well, I wrote one," Reyna insisted, though her tone suggested she was beginning to question her own memory of events.

"Regardless," Haden interjected, "the important thing is that Reyna is safe. Thank you, Lars, for helping with dinner and with Hilde."

"No problem," his business partner replied, clearly relieved by the positive resolution to the day's crisis. "I'm just glad everything turned out okay."

After Lars departed and they sat down to the simple meal he and Hilde had prepared, the atmosphere remained tense. Reyna picked at her food, avoiding eye contact. Hilde chattered nervously, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence with stories about her day at school and her latest lessons with Mr. Olsen. Haden attempted to maintain a calm, authoritative presence while internally processing his own complex emotions—relief at Reyna's safe return, anger at her thoughtless behavior, guilt about his own role in the family's current stress, and beneath it all, a profound missing of Kaja, whose steadying presence would have helped navigate this situation.

"We need to call Mom," Hilde said suddenly, interrupting her own story about a science project. "She'll be worried when she doesn't hear from us at the regular time."

Their daily video call with Kaja was scheduled for 7:30 PM, accommodating the six-hour time difference between Ontario and Norway. It was now nearly 8:00.

"You're right," Haden agreed, reaching for his phone. "I'll text her to let her know we're running late and will call in a few minutes."

"Do we have to tell her about today?" Reyna asked, looking up from her barely-touched dinner. "About me going to Grandmother's?"

"Yes," Haden said firmly. "No secrets. That's been our agreement throughout this process."

"But she'll just worry, and there's nothing she can do from Oslo."

"She deserves to know what's happening with her family, Reyna. Just as we deserve to know what's happening with her in Norway."

Reyna sighed but didn't argue further, recognizing the logic of this position even if she didn't like its implications.

After dinner, they gathered in the living room for the video call, the large screen on the wall displaying Kaja's Oslo apartment—a small but bright space with large windows and simple, modern furnishings. Kaja herself appeared moments later, her face lighting up at the sight of her family.

"There you are!" she exclaimed. "I was getting worried when you didn't call at the usual time."

"Sorry about that," Haden said. "We had an... eventful day."

"Eventful how?" Kaja's expression shifted to concern.

Haden glanced at Reyna, giving her the opportunity to explain herself. After a moment's hesitation, she spoke.

"I went to Grandmother's after school," she said, her tone carefully neutral. "But there was a miscommunication about whether I'd left a note. My phone died, so no one knew where I was for a while."

"A while?" Kaja raised an eyebrow. "How long is 'a while'?"

"About eight hours," Haden supplied when Reyna didn't immediately answer. "From when Hilde realized Reyna hadn't come home from band practice until I found her at your mother's house."

"Eight hours?" Kaja's concern deepened visibly. "Reyna, what were you thinking?"

"I thought I left a note," Reyna insisted, though with less conviction than before. "And I just... I needed to get away for a bit. To think."

"To think about what?" Kaja asked, her tone gentler now.

Reyna shrugged, looking down at her hands. "Everything. Nothing. I don't know."

"She said something interesting when I found her," Haden interjected, deciding it was important to address the underlying issue directly. "When I pointed out that she couldn't just leave without telling anyone, she said, 'Why not? Mom is.'"

A pained expression crossed Kaja's face. "Oh, Reyna," she said softly. "That's not the same thing at all."

"Isn't it?" Reyna looked up now, her eyes challenging. "You left. For three months. Because you 'needed space' to develop your art or whatever. How is that different from me going to Grandmother's for a day because I needed space to think?"

"The difference is that we discussed my residency for months beforehand," Kaja replied calmly. "We made plans together as a family. We established communication systems. We prepared emotionally and practically for the separation."

"And it's still hard," Reyna countered. "It's still you being gone when we need you here."

The raw honesty of this statement hung in the air between them, spanning the digital connection and the physical distance separating mother and daughter. Kaja was quiet for a moment, absorbing the pain behind Reyna's words.

"You're right," she said finally. "It is hard. Harder than I anticipated, if I'm being honest. I miss you all terribly. And yes, there are moments when I question whether this separation is worth the professional opportunity."

Her candor seemed to catch Reyna off guard, defusing some of the teenager's defensive anger. "Really? You miss us that much?"

"Every single day," Kaja confirmed. "I wake up reaching for your father beside me. I hear something interesting and turn to tell Hilde, only to remember she's not here. I see young musicians performing in a café and wish I could share the experience with you."

"Then why stay?" The question was direct but no longer accusatory—a genuine inquiry rather than a challenge.

"Because some journeys, even difficult ones, are necessary for growth," Kaja explained. "Because the work I'm doing here matters—to my development as an artist, to our family's connection to our heritage, to the legacy I hope to share with you girls someday."

"And because we agreed to support each other's dreams," Haden added gently. "Even when that support requires sacrifice."

"Exactly," Kaja nodded. "But Reyna, that support has to go both ways. Your father is making enormous efforts to balance work and family while I'm away. Hilde is adjusting to my absence in her own way. We all need to be considerate of each other during this challenging time."

"I know," Reyna admitted, her posture softening slightly. "I'm sorry about today. I really did think I left a note. And I didn't mean to make everyone worry."

"I believe you," Kaja said. "But intention doesn't negate impact. A lot of people were very concerned today, including your father and sister."

"And you," Reyna added, looking directly at the screen now. "You were worried too, even from Oslo."

"Of course I was," Kaja smiled slightly. "Distance doesn't change how much I care about what happens to you."

The conversation shifted then, moving to more general updates—Kaja's progress at the residency, Hilde's latest discoveries with Mr. Olsen, developments with the merger integration. Throughout, Haden observed a subtle but significant change in Reyna's demeanor—a softening, an opening, a willingness to engage that had been largely absent in recent days.

After the call ended, as the girls prepared for bed, Haden found himself on the deck overlooking Georgian Bay, watching the approaching storm. Lightning flickered in the distance, illuminating the dark clouds gathering over the water. The metaphor wasn't lost on him—the storm that had broken in their family today, the emotional lightning that had revealed hidden tensions, the potential for both destruction and cleansing renewal in such atmospheric releases.

"Dad?" Reyna's voice came from behind him. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Of course," he said, turning to find his older daughter standing in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically vulnerable in her oversized sleep shirt and bare feet.

She joined him at the railing, both of them watching the storm's approach in silence for a moment.

"I really am sorry about today," she said finally. "I didn't mean to scare everyone."

"I know," Haden assured her. "And I believe you about the note. Maybe you wrote it in your mind but not actually on paper. That happens sometimes when we're stressed or preoccupied."

"Maybe," Reyna acknowledged. "Or maybe I just wanted someone to notice I was gone."

The honesty of this admission caught Haden by surprise. "I notice you, Reyna," he said softly. "Every day. Even when I'm busy with work or distracted by merger details or trying to figure out how to be both mother and father to you and Hilde."

"I know you're trying," she said, still watching the storm rather than looking at him. "It's just... everything feels different with Mom gone. Like our center of gravity has shifted, and we're all wobbling around trying to find our balance."

It was an apt description, Haden thought—precise and insightful in the way Reyna often was when she allowed herself to be vulnerable rather than defensive.

"That's exactly how it feels," he agreed. "And I think it's okay to acknowledge that it's hard. That we're all adjusting, all finding our way through this temporary new normal."

"Do you miss her?" Reyna asked, finally turning to look at him. "As much as she misses you?"

"Every minute," Haden admitted without hesitation. "But I'm also proud of her, of the work she's doing, of her courage in pursuing this opportunity."

"Me too," Reyna said quietly. "I just wish it didn't have to involve her being so far away."

"I understand that feeling completely."

They stood together in companionable silence for a while, watching as the storm moved closer, the wind picking up, the first scattered raindrops beginning to fall on the deck around them.

"We should go in," Haden said as lightning flashed closer now, followed more quickly by thunder. "Before we get soaked."

"In a minute," Reyna replied, her face turned up to the sky. "I like feeling the rain. It's... cleansing, somehow."

Haden understood the sentiment. There was something purifying about standing in the rain, about letting natural forces wash over you, about surrendering momentarily to elements beyond your control. So he stayed beside his daughter as the rain increased, as the storm that had been building all evening finally broke over them in earnest.

They were both thoroughly wet by the time they retreated indoors, laughing as they dripped on the kitchen floor, the shared experience creating a moment of genuine connection that had been rare in recent days.

"What are you two doing?" Hilde asked, appearing in the kitchen doorway in her pajamas, eyes wide at their sodden appearance. "You're all wet!"

"Storm watching," Reyna explained, wringing water from her hair. "It got a little more interactive than we planned."

"You're crazy," Hilde declared, but she was smiling. "Both of you."

"Probably," Haden agreed, reaching for kitchen towels to mop up the worst of the puddles. "Now, everyone to bed. It's been a long day."

As he performed his nightly routine—checking doors and windows, turning off lights, making sure both girls were settled—Haden reflected on the day's events. What had begun as a crisis, as fear and anger and accusation, had somehow transformed into something more constructive—honest communication, genuine connection, a clearing of emotional air not unlike the storm that now raged outside their home.

In his bedroom—their bedroom, though Kaja's absence was palpable in the empty space beside him—Haden sent a final text to his wife:

Everyone settled now. Storm literally and figuratively passing. Thank you for your wisdom earlier. It made a difference.

Her reply came quickly:

We're finding our way through this together, even when apart. I love you all so much. Sleep well.

Outside, the storm continued its dramatic passage across Georgian Bay, lightning illuminating the landscape in brief, brilliant flashes, thunder rumbling overhead, rain lashing against windows and walls. Inside, a different kind of storm had broken and begun to clear—the emotional tension that had been building in Reyna finding release, the unspoken fears and resentments finally given voice, the path toward healing and adaptation becoming slightly clearer in the aftermath.

As Haden drifted toward sleep, lulled by the rhythm of the rain, he thought about storms—how they could be destructive but also necessary, clearing the air, releasing built-up pressure, making way for clearer skies ahead. Perhaps today's crisis, painful as it had been, was serving a similar purpose in their family's emotional landscape—releasing tensions that had been building, clearing the way for more honest communication, creating space for new growth and understanding.

With this thought providing comfort, he fell asleep to the sound of rain on the roof and thunder in the distance, the storm gradually moving eastward across the bay, leaving cleaner air and renewed perspective in its wake.

 

Chapter 12

Hilde arranged her "family healing ritual" with the determination of a general planning an invasion. She placed candles around their lakeside yard, arranged stones in patterns Mr. Olsen had taught her, and demanded everyone's participation.

"This is ridiculous," Haden muttered as Hilde led him and Reyna down to the shore on a warm August evening.

"So is pretending we're happy," Hilde replied with the devastating honesty of a ten-year-old.

They stood in a circle as the midsummer sun set over Georgian Bay, four people connected by blood and separated by silence. Except there were only three of them now, with Kaja's absence a palpable fourth presence in their circle.

The past week had been better—the storm of Reyna's disappearance and subsequent emotional breakthrough had indeed cleared the air, allowing for more honest communication and genuine connection among the remaining family members. Reyna had been more present, less withdrawn, even initiating conversations about her music and school preparations. Haden had made additional efforts to balance work and family, declining a non-essential Toronto meeting to attend Reyna's band performance at a local café. And Hilde, ever observant, had noted these positive changes while continuing her own projects—mythology studies with Mr. Olsen, contributions to the Heritage Threads family initiative, and now this: a ritual she had been planning for days.

"What exactly are we doing?" Reyna asked, her initial resistance softening in the face of her sister's earnestness.

"A ritual to bring balance," Hilde explained, placing one of Mr. Olsen's rune stones in each of their hands. "Mom has these same stones in Oslo. Mr. Olsen sent them to her. So we're connected even when we're apart."

Haden looked down at the stone in his palm—smooth, cool, carved with a symbol he didn't recognize. "And what do we do with them?"

"We think about what we want to say to Mom but can't because she's far away. We put those thoughts into the stones. Then we place them in the pattern I made, and the thoughts travel across the water to her."

It was the kind of magical thinking that only made sense to a child, and yet Haden found himself strangely moved by the ritual. By his daughter's belief that connection could transcend distance. By her determination to heal what was broken in their family.

"I'll go first," Hilde said, stepping forward to place her stone in the center of the pattern she had created in the sand. "I'm thinking that I miss Mom's pancakes on Sunday mornings, and the way she hums when she's weaving, and how she always knows when I'm sad even when I don't say anything."

Reyna went next, her teenage cynicism momentarily set aside. "I'm thinking that I'm sorry for being angry about her leaving, and that I'm proud of her art even though I don't always say it, and that I'm practicing the Norwegian songs she taught me."

Then it was Haden's turn. He stood holding the stone, aware of his daughters watching him, aware of the weight of the moment. What did he want to say to Kaja that couldn't be said in their weekly video calls or daily texts? What thoughts had he kept hidden, even from himself?

"I'm thinking," he began slowly, "that the house isn't a home without her. That I've been hiding in my work because it's easier than facing what I've been afraid of. That I miss her laugh, which I haven't heard enough in recent years."

He placed his stone in the pattern, completing the design Hilde had started. The three of them stood in silence for a moment, watching as the last light of day painted Georgian Bay in shades of gold and purple.

"Now what?" Reyna asked finally.

"Now we wait," Hilde said with the confidence of the true believer. "The thoughts are traveling."

As they turned to walk back to the house, Haden was surprised to find himself feeling lighter, as if the simple act of articulating his deeper feelings—even in this symbolic way—had released something tight within his chest. It was ridiculous, of course, this idea that thoughts could travel across oceans through stones placed in patterns on a beach. And yet...

"Dad?" Hilde's voice interrupted his reflections. "Can we have hot chocolate? Mr. Olsen says rituals should always end with something sweet to seal the intentions."

"In August?" Reyna protested. "It's like twenty-five degrees out."

"Rituals don't care about temperature," Hilde replied with the certainty that often caught her family off guard. "They care about meaning. And hot chocolate means comfort and home."

"Hard to argue with that logic," Haden smiled. "Hot chocolate it is."

Later that night, after the girls were in bed, Haden sat on the deck overlooking the bay. His phone buzzed with a text from Kaja:

The strangest thing happened today. I was working in the studio and suddenly had the strongest feeling that you were all thinking of me at the same moment. Is everything okay?

Haden stared at the message, a chill running down his spine despite the warm August night. He typed back:

Everything is fine. Hilde had us participate in one of her rituals by the shore this evening. Apparently, it worked.

Kaja's response came quickly:

Mr. Olsen has me doing the same rituals here. That old man is either crazy or the wisest person we know.

Maybe both, Haden replied.

Maybe. I miss you all.

Haden's fingers hovered over the screen. Three simple words he hadn't said enough in recent years. Words that seemed both inadequate and essential.

We miss you too.

The exchange left him thoughtful, contemplating connections that transcended physical distance, the possibility that there were indeed more things in heaven and earth than his rational mind could easily explain. He wasn't ready to believe that Hilde's stone ritual had literally transmitted their thoughts across the ocean. But perhaps there was something to the idea that intentional focus, shared purpose, and symbolic action could strengthen bonds already established by love and commitment.

The next morning, Hilde appeared at breakfast with a satisfied expression. "Did you get a message from Mom last night?" she asked without preamble.

"I did," Haden confirmed, setting a plate of slightly burned toast on the table. "How did you know?"

"The ritual worked," Hilde said simply, reaching for the jam. "The thoughts traveled."

"Or Mom texted Dad because it was evening and that's when they usually check in with each other," Reyna suggested, entering the kitchen with her hair still wet from the shower.

"Then why did she specifically say she felt us thinking about her at the same moment?" Hilde challenged. "Explain that with your science."

"Coincidence? Time zones? The fact that Mr. Olsen probably told her about your ritual plans?"

"Mr. Olsen wouldn't spoil the magic like that," Hilde insisted. "He understands the importance of belief."

"Girls," Haden interjected before the debate could escalate, "whether it was ritual magic or coincidental timing doesn't really matter. The important thing is that we're all finding ways to stay connected with Mom across the distance."

This diplomatic response seemed to satisfy both daughters, who turned their attention to breakfast and plans for the day. Reyna had band practice followed by a shopping trip with friends to prepare for the new school year. Hilde was spending the morning with Mr. Olsen, continuing their mythology studies and working on her contribution to the Heritage Threads project.

"And you, Dad?" Hilde asked. "What are you doing today?"

"Toronto meetings," Haden replied, trying to keep his tone neutral despite his lack of enthusiasm for the trip. "Merger integration discussions. I should be back by dinner, though."

"Promise?" Reyna looked up from her toast, a hint of the old anxiety in her expression.

"Promise," Haden confirmed. "I've scheduled everything to finish by four, which gives me plenty of time to drive back even with traffic."

"Good," Hilde nodded approvingly. "Because I'm making dinner tonight. Mr. Olsen is teaching me how to cook Norwegian meatballs."

"You're cooking?" Reyna looked skeptical. "Actual food, not just ritual ingredients?"

"Mr. Olsen says cooking is its own kind of magic," Hilde replied with dignity. "Transforming separate elements into something greater than their parts."

"That's actually a pretty good description of cooking," Haden observed, impressed by the insight. "And I look forward to your magical meatballs this evening."

After breakfast, as everyone prepared to depart for their various activities, Haden found himself reflecting on how their family rhythm had adjusted to Kaja's absence. There were still difficult moments, still times when her presence was acutely missed, but they were finding their way—establishing new patterns, supporting each other's endeavors, maintaining connections across distance.

The drive to Toronto was long but gave him time to think, to process the events of recent days, to prepare mentally for the meetings ahead. The merger integration was proceeding more smoothly than he had initially feared, with Jensen proving true to his word about accommodating Haden's family situation. Still, there were inevitable complications, negotiations, adjustments required as the two firms learned to work together effectively.

By the time he returned to Thornbury that evening, right on schedule as promised, Haden was mentally exhausted but also satisfied with the day's progress. The house smelled surprisingly good as he entered—the promised Norwegian meatballs apparently successful despite his initial concerns about Hilde's culinary abilities.

"Dad!" Hilde called from the kitchen. "You're just in time. The gravy is almost ready."

He found both daughters in the kitchen, Hilde stirring something on the stove while Reyna set the table. The scene was so domestic, so normal despite Kaja's absence, that it caught at his heart unexpectedly.

"Something smells wonderful," he said, hanging his jacket by the door. "Did Mr. Olsen supervise this culinary adventure?"

"He helped with the recipe and showed me the techniques," Hilde explained. "But I did most of it myself. With Reyna's help for the dangerous parts."

"I controlled all knife-related activities," Reyna confirmed with a grin. "And prevented at least two potential kitchen fires."

"Teamwork at its finest," Haden observed, pleased by this evidence of cooperation between his daughters. "Can I help with anything?"

"Just sit," Hilde instructed. "It's all under control."

The meal was surprisingly good—the meatballs tender and flavorful, the gravy rich, the lingonberry jam Mr. Olsen had contributed providing a perfect sweet-tart contrast. As they ate, Hilde explained the cultural significance of the dish, the variations found in different Scandinavian countries, the traditional occasions when it would be served.

"Mr. Olsen says food is one of the strongest connections to heritage," she informed them. "That recipes passed down through generations carry not just flavors but memories and identity."

"He's right about that," Haden agreed, thinking of his own grandfather's stories about Norwegian holiday foods, about the comfort and connection such traditions provided. "Food is a powerful carrier of culture."

"That's why I wanted to learn this recipe," Hilde explained. "For our Heritage Threads project. I'm documenting traditional foods alongside the mythology and symbols. How they all work together to create cultural identity."

"That's really thoughtful, Hilde," Reyna said, surprising both her sister and father with the sincere compliment. "And these meatballs are actually really good."

"Thanks," Hilde beamed at the praise. "Next time I want to try lefse. Mr. Olsen says that's trickier but worth learning."

After dinner, as they cleaned up together, Haden's phone rang with a video call from Kaja. They gathered around the kitchen table, propping the phone against a vase to include everyone in the frame.

"Something smells good even through the screen," Kaja observed after initial greetings. "What did you have for dinner?"

"Norwegian meatballs!" Hilde announced proudly. "I made them myself, with Mr. Olsen's recipe."

"She did," Reyna confirmed. "And they were actually edible. Better than edible—they were good."

"That's wonderful, Hilde," Kaja smiled. "I'm impressed. And speaking of Norwegian food, I had an interesting experience today that connects to our Heritage Threads project."

She proceeded to describe a workshop she had attended at the residency, focused on traditional textile patterns used in Norwegian cooking textiles—aprons, towels, tablecloths. The designs, she explained, often incorporated symbols related to food production and preparation, creating a visual language that connected domestic activities to broader cultural narratives.

"It's exactly what Mr. Olsen was talking about!" Hilde exclaimed. "How food and symbols and stories all connect to create cultural identity."

"Exactly," Kaja agreed. "I thought immediately of your project component. I've collected some images and information that I'll email to you tomorrow."

The conversation continued, touching on everyone's activities—Reyna's band preparations for a local festival performance, Haden's merger meetings, Kaja's progress with her residency projects. Throughout, Haden observed the ease with which they were now navigating these cross-ocean discussions, the way they had developed a rhythm that allowed for meaningful connection despite the distance and time difference.

After the call ended and the girls retreated to their rooms for the evening, Haden found himself drawn once again to the deck overlooking the bay. The August night was warm and clear, stars brilliant above, the waxing moon casting a silver path across the water. In Oslo, he knew, Kaja would be starting her day, perhaps watching the morning light on a different body of water, under the same sky but in a different time, a different context.

The thought was both melancholy and comforting—the recognition of separation alongside the awareness of continued connection. They were finding their way through this challenge, all of them, each in their own manner. Reyna through music and grudging adaptation. Hilde through rituals and heritage exploration. Haden himself through focused presence and honest communication. And Kaja, across the ocean, through her artistic immersion and faithful maintenance of family bonds.

His phone buzzed with a text from Kaja, as if his thoughts had summoned her message:

Just watched the sunrise over Oslo Fjord and thought of you all. The light here is different but beautiful. Counting the days until your visit next month.

He typed back:

Just watched the moonrise over Georgian Bay and thought of you. The girls are amazing—Hilde's cooking, Reyna's music, their resilience. We're managing, but missing you every day.

I'm proud of all of you, came her reply. And missing you too. But also grateful for this experience, for what I'm learning here, for what you're all discovering there.

Growth through separation, Haden responded, thinking of their earlier conversations about this journey.

As he prepared for bed that night, Haden found himself reflecting on Hilde's ritual by the shore, on the stones placed in patterns, on thoughts traveling across oceans. Perhaps there was something to her childlike belief in connections that transcended physical distance. Perhaps the bonds of family, of love, of shared history and purpose, did indeed create channels through which understanding and support could flow, regardless of geography.

Or perhaps it was simpler than that—perhaps the ritual's value lay not in mystical transmission but in the act of articulation, in giving voice to feelings often left unspoken, in creating a shared experience of intention and attention. Either way, something had shifted since that sunset ceremony on the beach. Something had opened, had lightened, had begun to heal.

The wisdom seeker in this family wasn't just Hilde with her runes and rituals, Haden realized. It was all of them—each searching in their own way for understanding, for connection, for meaning in the midst of separation and change. And perhaps that shared seeking, that common purpose despite different methods, was itself a kind of magic—the transformation of separate elements into something greater than their parts, just as Hilde had described the process of cooking.

With this thought providing comfort, Haden fell asleep in the bed that still felt too large without Kaja beside him, but with a growing sense that they were all finding their way through this challenging time, all learning and growing in ways that would ultimately strengthen rather than weaken their family bonds.

Outside, Georgian Bay lapped gently against the shore, the rhythmic sound a reminder of continuity amid change, of patterns that persisted even as individual waves came and went. Inside, the house settled into nighttime quiet, three people sleeping under one roof while the fourth rested an ocean away, all connected by invisible threads of love and commitment that neither time nor distance could sever.