Chapter One
Sarai
“Dear Lord, what have I done!”
The words rip out of me as I slam my fist against the steering wheel, the sound dull and flat in the pressurized cabin of the SUV. My knuckles ache—a sharp, pulsing reminder that I am no longer sitting behind a mahogany desk in downtown Toronto. Instead, I am ten minutes away from my new farm—my farm—and panic is clawing at the edges of my bravado like a trapped animal.
I left my family.
My career.
My friends.
My life.
My… future.
For what? To live in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere.
I pull over to the shoulder of the narrow highway, dust from my tires swirling into a beige cloud that obscures the rearview mirror. I stare at the GPS.
Birch Haven.
Who even calls a place Birch Haven? There aren’t any birch trees around here—trust me, I spent three hours on a deep-dive Google search before I left the airport. Not a single one. It’s all wheat, canola, and stubborn shrubs. False advertising at its finest.
My Spotify playlist shuffles to SZA, her voice smooth and aching, and I try to focus on the one bright thought that hasn’t yet been tarnished by the rising tide of regret: the cute little acreage I found on Facebook Marketplace.
It had been an impulsive buy. A two a.m., third-glass-of-wine, I-hate-my-boss kind of purchase. It was expensive—yes—the kind of “steal” that only looks like a bargain when you’re desperate to escape a glass-walled cage. But the woman selling it had a voice like warm honey over the phone. She told me she couldn’t manage the property anymore after her husband passed. With her kids living in the city and her joints protesting prairie winters, she was moving into a small seniors’ building closer to town.
The memory of the call flashes through my mind. I’d been sitting on my balcony in Toronto, the city humming below me like a giant, indifferent machine. I’d looked at my reflection in the glass—the four-hundred-dollar silk blouse, the perfectly laid edges, the exhausted eyes of a woman winning a race she never wanted to run.
“It’s a good piece of earth, Sarai,” Cora Williamson had told me. “It’s quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat.”
I typed in my information for the deposit before I could talk myself out of it.
The second I got the confirmation, Plan-Ahead Sarai was smothered by a version of me I didn’t recognize. I booked a one-way flight to Calgary, signed papers for a pre-owned SUV with AWD, and started driving east until the mountains disappeared and the sky became a terrifying, endless bowl of blue.
Me—the girl who plans every outfit three days in advance, who writes pros-and-cons lists for dinner reservations—being impulsive. I was raised not to be. Spontaneity was a luxury my parents couldn’t afford when they moved here from Grenada. They brought that strict Caribbean pride into everything they did, drilling it into me and my younger sister, Maya, from day one. We were the poster children for Black excellence—perfect grades, perfect posture, perfect public image.
My father, a man who ironed his jeans and spoke with a precision that could cut glass, used to say, Don’t give them a reason to look down on us, Sarai. You must be twice as good to be seen as half as equal.
I spent twenty-nine years being twice as good.
Senior associate at one of the top firms in the city. A condo with floor-to-ceiling windows. And a boyfriend—Max—who looked great on paper but felt like a chore in practice.
That part tightens my throat.
Max.
The man who called my ambition “intimidating” while taking credit for my ideas.
The man I found sharing a very private bottle of wine with his junior assistant in our penthouse three nights before I fled.
If my parents find out what I’ve done, they might actually disown me. They won’t see the betrayal as a reason to leave; they’ll see my departure as a failure of character. A breakdown. A waste of the education they sacrificed their youth for.
My stomach knots—cold and heavy. I put the SUV back into gear, tires spitting gravel as I merge onto the road. The landscape is hypnotic in its monotony.
Gold.
Green.
Blue.
Repeat.
Then I see it.
A weathered wooden sign hangs crookedly from a post:
The Williamson Acreage.
Gravel crunches beneath my tires as I pull in, and for the first time in days, the knot in my chest loosens just a fraction. I smile.
The house is small but charming—white siding, chocolate-brown trim, a navy-blue front door that looks freshly painted. Cozy in a storybook cottage meets prairie homestead kind of way. It looks like the sort of place where people bake pies and don’t check their emails every thirty seconds.
The yard, however—
Lord, have mercy.
Overgrown grass tall enough to hide small, angry predators. Rusted mechanical junk scattered across the property—tractor parts, maybe. Or the remains of something that once had wheels and a purpose. The “garden” from the photos is now cracked dirt and stubborn weeds claiming victory over the soil.
And in the distance, near the back fence line, there’s a shed.
Gray. Leaning. One rusted hinge holding the door in place.
The kind of shed where horror movie protagonists go to die.
Absolutely not.
I kill the engine. The silence is deafening—no sirens, no traffic, no city hum. Just wind whispering through the gaps of the car door seal. I step out, warm summer air wrapping around me, smelling of sun-baked grass and something faintly sweet—clover, maybe.
I tilt my head back. In Toronto, the sky is a sliver between skyscrapers. Here, it’s a dome. Vast enough to swallow me whole. My eyes close, and for the first time in weeks, my lungs fully expand.
Then the front door creaks open.
A petite older woman steps onto the porch, silver hair twisted into a neat bun. Floral blouse. Faded high-waisted jeans. Warm eyes—the kind that feel like home before you know why.
“You must be Sarai,” she calls. “Oh my, aren’t you just stunning in person. Those photos didn’t do you justice.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Thank you. You must be Ms. Williamson.”
She laughs and waves a hand. “Call me Cora, dear. ‘Ms. Williamson’ makes me feel like I’m about to give someone detention.”
She walks toward me with surprising agility, eyes kind and curious. “This land’s been in my family over a hundred years. My grandparents built the first house themselves. Daddy always said the earth holds onto you—it doesn’t let go easily.”
I glance at the crooked fence and wild grass. “It certainly… has character.”
She laughs. “She’s a mess right now, I’ll admit. Since Henry passed, I haven’t had the heart to fight the weeds. But she’s got good bones. Best soil in the county if you treat her right.”
Her hand brushes my arm. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, dear?”
I think of boardrooms. My mother’s disappointed sigh. Sunday-night dread.
“I’ve spent my life doing things I was ‘ready’ for,” I say. “I think I’m ready for something I’m completely unprepared for.”
Cora smiles wider. “Well, that’s the best reason I’ve ever heard. Come on in.”
I follow her inside.
