The narrow road leading to the old house became an even narrower gravel path, wide enough for only one car, as it neared the stone wall which protected the property.
The thick line of trees on my left went all the way down to the river. The stone wall continued on my right until a bend in the road where it opened up and beckoned me onto the property. Turning my car into the driveway, I saw a faded sign, somewhat hidden by wild lupines and tiger-lilies, telling me that this was "Elmwood, 1896". Another sign, right next to it, said "For Sale".

The house itself was a two-story, white clapboard cottage, with a verandah that seemed to hug the house gently while rotting columns were trying to hold the whole thing up. The owner evidently had tried to camouflage this fact by strategically placing flower-filled pots and urns all around them. They did not do the job of hiding the truth very well but instead gave Elmwood an unpretentious and innocent charm. It was what lay beyond the house, however, which immediately captured my eye, not to mention my broken heart.

Before coming here, I had debated whether to even bother making this journey. After all, Robert had made it very clear that he had no intention of living in the country. He loved the hustle and bustle of the city and he thrived on polluted air, as he liked to joke. Just this morning he warned me not to get any crazy ideas about life-style changes, which had prompted me to snap:

"It's not just about what you want, Robert, it's also about my needs, and right now I feel as though I’m drifting aimlessly. I am in desperate need of a change."

Robert had slowly put down his coffee mug and looked at me with a sympathetic and tender smile on his lips.

"My, my," he had chided. "I can see you're serious. Just don't go falling in love with an old farm, or something because I may not be able to follow you there." With that he strode out of the kitchen, leaving me to my thoughts and my lukewarm coffee.

Ever since Marion's death, we had had these little clashes. Robert clung stubbornly to his daily routine and his books, stacked as they were throughout the house, working late into the night, then starting again early in the morning. When he needed company he only had to walk the two blocks to our tennis club, where he could either play a few sets or just sit at the bar and have a drink with Matt or Bruce.

It's been entirely different for me. I roam the house even when I'm not in it. I mentally walk from room to room, touching things as I go, my grief for our daughter washing over me to the point where I have no energy left to do anything other than roam some more. I replay my memories of Marion like I would a favourite film. In her room, which has been cleaned but remains as she left it, I mentally sit in her canvas- covered chair. In the living room I see her sprawled on the floral sofa the telephone, which she used for hours on end and which she often could not find until it rang, cradled to her ear. On the small desk in the hallway where she always put her house keys before rubbing the head of the bronze elephant for good luck, stands the last photo I ever took of her. She is looking into the camera, her straw hat with the blue ribbon slightly askew and her gap-toothed grin indicating that she had not a care in the world. Had we known when we took that picture that it would be her last summer we might have taken more, but mercifully, we had no inkling of the hell to come.

When word came of the accident, it was Robert who took the call. It was the way his body froze and the sharp intake of breath that told me it was about Marion. I heard him say "Oh dear Lord, no. It can't be." My own head began to get fuzzy and my stomach lurched. I grabbed Robert's arm and looked into his eyes, silently begging him to deny my worst fear. We were beyond salvation on that awful day. He put the phone down and fell to his knees, sobbing Marion's name over and over again. I stood stock-still, wanting to just die with our daughter, but instead I reached down and cradled Robert with every ounce of love and strength I still had in me.

Now, a year later, I feel like the fog of pain is sucking us both into a place from which we will not be able to get out, no matter how much we still love each other. Robert's way of coping with our tragedy has been to take charge of everything and then plunge into work while hanging on for dear life to his daily routine. Mine has been to take a leave of absence from work so that I could have the time and luxury to relive every moment of my child's life. Her birth, her first tooth, her bouts of colic, Kindergarten, our first vacation in Maine, all play over and over again in my head as I walk around and touch the artifacts of our home. In the blink of an eye, Marion goes from a chubby little girl with curly dark hair to a long legged, gum-chewing, guitar playing teenager. If I close my eyes, I can hear her softly singing "Michelle, ma belle…" as she delicately strummed her fingers over the chords. As much as it hurts me to remember, it also gives me joy to do so.

But we cannot live in the past, forever enmeshed in our pain. I have to find a way for us to move forward and to help Robert understand that I am running out of strength. He needs to break away from the routine that props him up emotionally and I need to find a new beginning. Our home, that now contains nothing but memories has become a kind of prison for both of us. Without realizing it, I have been searching for a place where we can start over and where I can set Marion free.

That is how I happen to find myself standing in front of Elmwood on this late summer afternoon. My soul is uplifted upon seeing this house. I instinctively know with all my heart that Marion would have loved it here. My eyes travel beyond the verandah towards the side of the house. Through a copse of trees, I see a lawn that slopes down to the river, where wild flowers grow in abundance. The stone wall, broken down in parts, also goes down to the water's edge, a place so lovely and peaceful, it makes me think I am standing in the middle of a painting.

Closing the car door, I slowly venture towards the house, trying to drink it all in. With hope in my heart I could see in one split second that if I could get Robert to come here, we would be given a last chance to make something of our lives. The front door opened just as I was about to put my foot on the uneven brick steps. A woman, quite elderly, with wispy gray hair done up in a bun and twinkling blue eyes, smiled and said:

"So you've come about the house."

"Yes," I replied. "It is so lovely."

"I've lived here all my life," said the lady extending her hand to me." My name is Marion Blanchard."