I place three drops of lavender into my palms, rub them together, lift them to my nose and inhale, before rubbing them onto the back of my neck.

“That’ll do for now,” I say, feeling a bit readier for the day.

I pad down the stairs, and the house turns even colder. I walk over to the thermostat and begin to turn it up, but I can’t get my finger to actually hit the arrow higher. I stop and instead pull the hoodie over my head.

“Morning, Darryl,” I say to the moose as I head toward the kitchen.

The room is sunny and bright. I open the fridge and smile, remembering I’d at least been smart enough to bring a few provisions from the city: coffee, steel cut oats, snacks, a rotisserie chicken and some of my favorite frozen food from Trader Joe’s. I start the coffee in my parents’ ancient coffee maker and sigh as it begins to brew, filling the kitchen with the scent of roasted beans. The smell reminds me of them. I shut my eyes and smile. I can hear my father greet Darryl as I just did.

I open my eyes, grab a Saugatuck mug from the cabinet and pour myself a cup of coffee. I walk over to the patio door and look at the snow-covered deck—the snow now knee-deep in spots from drifting—and at the decaying fish house beyond. This is where—back in the day—they used to clean and store fish. Al Capone supposedly used it as a front for running liquor, and when he’d send out ice trucks filled with fresh Lake Michigan whitefish, most of the white packages were filled with booze.

I can tell it’s warming a bit after the snowstorm, as the snow is drip, drip, dripping off the roof, leaving sunken spots in the snow around the cottage. A cardinal sits in my mom’s favorite tree—a pine we planted decades ago that has now grown to be nearly twenty feet tall—and the simple beauty of the red in the white and green makes me catch my breath. The cardinal takes flight, and snow falls in dramatic heaves from the pine branches.

This is such a departure from my life just days ago: waking up at dawn, meetings in the city, working in a skyscraper... I stop.

Working for someone else.

For a moment, I feel as if I’m no longer a productive member of society, but I look at the fish house and can hear my grampa as clear as day, as if he’s standing right beside me, his Old Spice overpowering the smell of the coffee.

“Owning your own business,” I can hear Grampa Otto say in his German accent, “that’s the American dream. It’s up to you to make it happen every day. Dream big, schatzi.”