Sylvie asks, “Why didn’t you go the fertility route?”

“We started down that road. But it was early days for IVF and also, as a Catholic, Hana was torn about the process. She wasn’t sure God would approve of circumventing her body’s natural abilities. We did two rounds of fertility treatments, they failed, and Hana said no more. She thought it was God’s will.”

“So you decided to adopt,” Sylvie states.

“We did not decide. Hana did. I was certain that I couldn’t love someone else’s child.”

The impulse to squeeze Sylvie’s shoulder hits; to let her know she’s not alone. But that gesture would be hollow. She is alone.

“Hana filled out all sorts of forms, applied to different agencies. By then we were in our mid-forties. Low on every list.”

“But you said you didn’t want to adopt.”

“Your mother convinced me to get the fish in the boat then decide if we wanted to keep it.”

“So foster care was the last resort?”

“I put my foot down on that one. Biggest fight of our marriage. An older child was already influenced by parents who could’ve been drug addicts or worse.”

“It’s not their fault what their parents did,” Sylvie says.

“No, it’s not. But children are molded in those first few years. I didn’t want to borrow trouble.” He tugs off his hat, scratches his head, then replaces it. “Damn hats are always itchy.”

“Try wearing the sweaters she made.”

Her dad chuckles, and for a moment I can see how they once were partners in crime, buddies.

“So how’d you end up with me?”

“One day your mom packed a lunch, all my favorites, and we went up to Mount Hood for a hike and picnic. She told me that there was a little girl, barely six, who needed us. We could take her on a trial basis. I argued that the child would come with big problems that we weren’t equipped to handle, that it could potentially damage our marriage. She reasoned that we had built upon our legacy, created an even more successful orchard, but had no heirs. Didn’t I want someone to pass things on to?”

“So it was all about the orchard?” Sylvie asks, a thread of hurt woven through her words.

Wess must hear it, too, but still admits, “That was a large part of my decision.” He looks around. The sun glances off the hilltops. “Generations have put their lives into this place. I’m proud of them, and always hoped they’d be proud of me. The idea that we will eventually sell it and someone else will run Young Orchards is a bitter pill to swallow.”

He coughs, deep and phlegmy. Sylvie’s hand rises to touch his back then falls without contact.

“Hana promised that she’d be responsible for you. If there were problems, she’d solve them. If you were too much to handle, you’d go back.”

Sylvie asks, “Did you know how she solved problems?”

Wess squeezes the back of his neck. “I knew from the moment you stepped out of that car and came up the front walk, knobby kneed, eyes pinned to the ground, hair in messy braids, we both loved you. It was that simple. Whatever your mom did to help you let go of the baggage brought with you, to give you a shot at a good life? I don’t fault her. Hana always wanted the best for you and our family.”