I race around The Rink. A massive bronze statue of Atlas, located on Fifth Avenue, rises over the skating rink like the mythological god it is. Atlas glows in the light. If I remember my college mythology correctly, Atlas sided with the Titans in their war against the Olympians and when the Titans were defeated, Zeus condemned him to stand at the western edge of the Earth and hold up the celestial heavens on his shoulders for eternity.

I spin around the rink, faster and faster, but I cannot avoid the gaze of Atlas. I slow and, without warning, am overwhelmed with emotion.

For the majority of my life, I have punished myself for the death of my sister. My guilt was akin to carrying the weight of the world on my own shoulders.

And yet I now have the world at my fingertips. By accepting this job, my life will have come full circle. I would be an Olympian, victorious. My lifelong sacrifices would finally have paid off.

But by saying yes, would I be saying goodbye to everything I have gained so far?

Can I say goodbye to my mother yet again, knowing I will likely spend the winter of her life far away?

Can I say goodbye to Mason, who patiently thawed my heart?

Can I say goodbye to Icicle, who has become the younger sibling I need in my life?

Can I hurt Lisa again?

Can they survive another setback, another loss, another goodbye?

Can I?

When I finish and return my skates, I stop and look around.

Atlas—and the city—is aglow.

This is what I’ve worked for my whole life.

As I begin to exit The Rink, a quote from John D. Rockefeller Sr. catches my attention.

“I do not think that there is any other quality so essential to success of any kind as the quality of perseverance. It overcomes almost everything, even nature.”

The sun wakes me in my bedroom at home.

As I do most mornings, I grab my cell from the nightstand and check the forecast. I smile when Icicle pops up on the video.

“This shocking March warmth will last for a few more hours…”

Of course, while I was gone, Michigan experienced a heat wave, relatively speaking. The temperatures warmed into the upper fifties, as the cold front pushed onto the East Coast.

More irony, I think. Of course, I would leave when it got warmer.

I pull on my robe and slippers and head downstairs.

“Morning.”

My mother’s voice makes me jump.

“You’re up early,” she notes.

“You, too,” I say.

I head to the cabinet, pull out a mug and pour a cup of coffee.

“That’s become a favorite mug,” my mom says with a smile.

I look. I grabbed the mug featuring Michigan as a winter mitten on the side of it.

More irony.

“Sit,” my mom says.

I take a seat on a barstool at the counter beside her and take a drink of coffee.

“How’s was your girls’ weekend?”

I look over at my mom. If a question could have a sarcastic wink attached to it, my mother’s would.

“Talk,” she orders.

“Okay. It wasn’t a girls’ weekend.”

“I’m stunned,” my mother says, clutching her chest. “Don’t know a lot of girls’ weekends where everyone stays at The St. Regis. And you don’t really have any close girlfriends, either.”

“Ouch, Mother,” I say.

“You’re a meteorologist, dear. Not Keith Morrison unraveling a murder on Dateline. It wasn’t hard to figure out.” She looks at me and takes a sip of her coffee. “You’re more like the killers he covers who can’t hide their tracks. You left clues everywhere.”

“Busted,” I say.

“Tell me everything.”

When I finish, I stare at my mom. It is impossible to read her. She is like the world’s best poker player. I can’t tell if she has a full house or a pair of threes.

“What do you think I should do?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” my mom says. “No, no, no.”

“You’re not going to tell me?” I ask.

“You already know,” my mom says. She reaches over and shakes my leg. “For all of history, children have come to their parents seeking advice. They ask and listen, and they go off and do what they want. That’s not a bad thing, but I know I can’t—and shouldn’t—change your mind or influence your decision in any way. I asked my parents if I should get married, when I already knew. I asked you if I should go back to work after your father died, but I already knew. You already know, sweetheart. And I can’t make that decision for you. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”

My mom continues. “I help my patients transition. I give them medication, I nurse, I pray, I ease their pain, but—much of that time—the final decision is still theirs. Often, I don’t know how their bodies can last an hour longer, and yet sometimes a mother will go on for days until her daughter finally arrives to say goodbye. Or a father will hold out until his son rushes in the door to grip his hand. Even at the end of our lives, we are often still making our own decisions. We are still fighting. We are still holding on to hope and love.” She stops. “Because we’re still alive, and we know what we want.”

I start bawling and cannot stop. My mother opens her arms and hugs me, and she sways me back and forth atop my stool.

“I have so many regrets, Mom. I regret not picking up Joncee that day. I regret turning my back on so many people who loved me and tried to help me. I regret not being a mother like you. I regret wasting so many years fearing I might get hurt again when I was hurting myself every single day. I regret missing years of conversations like this. I regret not being me. Amberrose Murphy. Daughter, sister, Michigan native.”

“Nearly every patient I help transition is filled with regrets. The only solution is to start living your life with an open heart and an open mind. Today.”

“I’m glad I’m home, Mom.”

“Me, too. So?” she finally asks. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to call some of my friends and seek their advice, too,” I say, “and then I’m going to go for a walk in the woods.”

“Smart. What was the old Robert Frost poem?” my mom asks.

“‘The Road Not Taken’?”

“Exactly,” she says. “You can only choose one path at a time.”

My mom lets me go.

“Where are you off to?” I sniff.

“I have to help a client prepare for a walk, too.”

“Oh, Mom. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” she says. “It’s okay. She’s a mother of six. Grandmother of nine. Great-grandmother of three. Husband died young. She became a postmistress. But now she says she misses her husband. Says she has for decades. She told me last month that she missed dancing with him.” My mom stops. “She told me last week he was reaching for her hand, and that she could feel it and she could hear the music. She’s made her decision.”

My mom kisses me on the forehead.

“I know you’ll choose your path wisely.”

My mother pulls on her coat, grabs her purse and heads to the garage.

I listen to her leave. It is silent in the house.

I pick up my cell.

“Hi, Eva. It’s Sonny. Got a minute?”

And then I call Tammy Lynn, Becky Jo and Jenny.

I head upstairs and get dressed for my walk. Not as many layers today are needed. Spring is coming, then summer.

And there is nothing like summer in northern Michigan.

Clouds are beginning to build over the bay. I walk the opposite way and into the woods. The ground is spongy, and my boots leave suction marks as I walk. Snow still lines the shaded areas on the wooded hillsides. Memories come flooding back as I walk. I see a stand of bent, gnarled sassafras twisted like witches fingers.

Aliens were here, Joncee used to say of these weird trees spotted with knots and growing in odd directions.

I used to laugh at her description, but it seems accurate, and I scoot past them quickly.

As I walk, the sun angles through the woods, giving them a magical feel. The darkness is sliced with light, and I follow it as if it were the Yellow Brick Road leading me to an answer.

Home.

I am warm as I walk, the first time I’ve felt this warm outside in ages.

Since Palm Springs?

Since I danced with Mason in the snow?

I look around. I no longer know where I am.

Which direction?

Clouds begin to choke out the sun, and I am suddenly standing in darkness. The wind shifts to the north and begins to gust. I can feel the temperature drop, quickly and precipitously. Instinct tells me to turn around, but I search for a different path home.

I head toward a stand of barren birch, white and light in the darkness. When I reach them, I stop and smile.

A hillside of daffodils is blooming, yellow, bright and happy.

The recent spate of warmer than average weather has forced them to bloom much earlier than usual.

I take a seat on the stump of a tree that has fallen and broken off over the winter.

Was I meant to find you for some reason? I think. Am I meant to see you right now?

I sit for a moment and shut my eyes. The cold wind cuts through me. Joncee loved daffodils. But she hated that people often thought she was named after jonquils, a type of daffodil with a strong fragrance.

Why did our parents give us such stupid names? she’d complain.

I would always shrug. I didn’t much care for Amberrose, either.

A way for us to carry on their history, I’d say.

That would always appease her. Makes sense I guess.

I sigh.

What should I do, Joncee? I ask the daffodils. Tell me. Please.

The wind whistles through the branches.

No regrets, my mother always says. Do not end your life with regret, Amberrose.

What will I miss when my time here is over? Will I regret not taking this job, or will I regret leaving home once again? Will I regret not being a huge success, or am I one already?

Will I regret not being on national TV every weekend, or will I miss making snow angels with my mom?

Will I miss being recognized on the street everywhere I go, or will I miss dancing in the snow with Mason?

Will I kick myself for not making more money than I ever dreamed, or will I be sick to my stomach when I have to send my regrets to Icicle’s wedding because I have to work?

“What should I do, Joncee? Tell me. Please.”

I say this out loud, and the sound of my own voice in the quiet of the woods surprises me. My voice is lost, sad, trembling.

I take a mental picture of the daffodils and shut my eyes.

I can see myself as a girl picking a bouquet of them and rushing home to put them in water. How many times did Joncee turn the sprayer on me and laugh while I was filling the vase at the kitchen sink?

I can hear her infectious giggles in the sound of the wind.

Suddenly, I feel water.

My imagination is out of control, I think.

I sigh.

And then I feel it again.

I open my eyes, and snow is falling. Not just falling but coming down in wet, heavy sheets.

I look up, through the trees, toward heaven.

Lake effect, I think. Lake-effect snow.

A cold air mass is passing over the lake’s warmer waters.

I start to giggle. And then laugh. Finally, I am doubled over.

Joncee and the weather have answered the question I already had answered in my heart. I just needed my brain to play along.

I walk home through the snowy woods, taking a path I’d never taken before, feeling exhilarated at being both lost and found.

When I get home, I pick up the phone and I call Jo.

“Are you sitting down?” I ask.

“Don’t play my game on me,” she says.

I tell her my decision.

She doesn’t say a word to me for seemingly forever, a first in her life.

“I’m not a magician,” Jo finally says, her voice hoarse.

“Yes, you are,” I say. “You could sell underwear to a nudist.”

She laughs. “Are you flattering me?”

“Yes.” I stop. “I know it’s a hard sell, but I know I’m making the right decision. I’m proud of who I’ve become: strong, independent, happy.”

“Oh, good Lord,” Jo says. “You’ve become a Kelly Clarkson song.” She takes a sip of something. “Okay, let me see what I can do. I can’t promise you anything.” She hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” I say. “I’m ready to take this leap.”

“Then I’ll be your parachute,” Jo says.

“Now you’re the one who sounds like a Kelly Clarkson song.”

Jo hangs up.

I sit in the kitchen, make a cup of hot chocolate and watch it snow. The snow falls, heavier and heavier. I crack the patio door. The world is silent.

When the snow covers the patio, I head outside to play in the lake effect.