Left Behind

“The world needs more boys with reputations like The Wilde Boys.”

“A heartbreaking journey so profound it will change you.”

“Hoffmeister has a gift for developing flawed characters and their emotionally wrenching dilemmas.”

“A beautifully layered story.”

“The emotional journey is made more engrossing by the descriptive language of Hoffmeister’s lyrical writing.”

“Left Behind will resonate with readers who love a tale full of heart and soul.”

“I cried chapter after chapter. Left Behind broke my soul before piecing it back together in a whole new way. I will never be the same again.”

“I absolutely could not put this fabulous book down. I treasured every word and was left yearning for more.

"Insanely good!"

“Hoffmeister’s writing is heartfelt and heartbreaking."

“I cherished every word of Left Behind—it should be on everyone’s must-read list. Devastating, poignant, haunting, and tragically beautiful.”

Winter had firmly entrenched its presence in my tiny town in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains. Nestled between the mountains in the Wenatchee River Valley, it lay beneath a thick blanket of snow, transforming the landscape into a silent, pristine wonderland. The town, with its modest collection of homes, a few local shops, and the ever-present scent of pine, was bustling with tourists on their way to Leavenworth for the tree lighting. Like clockwork, the first Saturday in December, our little town transformed from its usual liveliness to extreme hecticness.

Riverbend Farmstand, the adorable farm-fresh mercantile my parents had been taking me to since birth, and where I now worked, was bursting at the seams with families all day. Half a dozen times, I found lost toddlers crying in corners and walked hand-in-hand with them around the shop, asking them if the statues of Santa gnomes or wooden reindeer were their parents. Their exasperated “no’s” would dry their tears until, on cue, they flung themselves into the arms of their parents, some of whom hadn’t even realized their little one was missing.

A win for today was when I kept my composure long enough to stop a pre-teen from squeezing copious amounts of marionberry-flavored honey into his mouth straight from the sample honey bear. Forget the tiny tester spoons we offered in little jars around the displays—he was full-on guzzling. To be fair, it was thoughtful of him to make sure his lips didn’t touch the bear. Instead, he held the container high above his head, squeezing the honey bear’s belly and letting a stream of honey land in his mouth. When his mom heard me ask him to stop and noticed what he was doing, she took control by shrieking, “Joseph Nathan Archer, what do you think you’re doing?”

Everyone, and I mean everyone, turned to witness the spectacle. Joseph jerked his face towards his mother mid-stream, drizzling a trail of dark purple honey down the front of his shirt and onto the farmstand floor. She snatched the honey bear from his sticky hands and tossed it at me.

With a now humiliated Joseph under his mom’s care, I retreated around the corner and down to the far end of the jam and jelly aisle. I bent over in laughter, holding my side. It hurt to keep it in. When I was ten, it had been my fondest wish to do the same thing. But since I’d grown up coming here, I knew my mom would box my ears if I tried it. Given the opportunity, I would’ve done the same thing, except I would’ve chosen the huckleberry flavor. It’s the best flavor on Earth.

“Excuse me, do you work here?” I glanced up and locked eyes with a young woman my age. I straightened up, and said, “Yes, I do. How can I help you?”

She pointed to the top shelf where jars of Apple Butter were neatly displayed, just out of her reach. “Can you grab one for me? I can’t find a stool.”

“We don’t keep stools out for safety reasons, but I’d be happy to help.” I reached for a half-pint jar and handed it to her.

“Could I get the larger one instead?” she asked, and I swapped it for a pint.

In a hushed voice, I leaned closer and spoke in a secretive, spy-like manner, “This stuff is great, but just between us, my mom’s recipe is amazing.”

Curiously, she raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Can you prove it?”

“I could, but you don’t seem familiar. Are you just visiting the valley?”

With a teasing smile, she replied, “Maybe. But what difference does that make?”

“If you’re a tourist, I don’t have time to prove it. You’re only here for a day or two, right?”

She seemed surprised and asked, “How do you know I’m a tourist?”

“There are only eleven girls in town over the age of fourteen. I know them all.” She giggled, a sound as light as the scarf around her neck.

“Only eleven? Poor thing. Maybe I should move here with my two sisters and make it fourteen.”

“A whole family of beautiful sisters? The town might tip off its axis with that kind of charm.” Her cheeks flushed a soft pink, and she fell silent. I reached for another jar, holding it out to her. “Here, try this one, too. It’s Herbed Tomato Jam.”

“Herbed Tomato Jam? Sounds unusual,” she said, eyeing the jar skeptically.

“Don’t let the name fool you. Picture this: herb crackers, a thick layer of cream cheese, and a spoonful of this jam on top. Trust me, it’ll change your life.”

She hesitated, but took the jar, wrinkling her button nose. “I’m not convinced.”

“Anna,” a voice called from behind her, “did you find the Apple Butter?”

She turned toward the voice, holding up the pint. “I did. And Noah here,” she said, glancing at my name tag, “was just convincing me to try jam made from tomatoes and herbs.”

“Recommending, not convincing,” I corrected, offering her mother a smile as I repeated the cracker suggestion.

Her mother nodded with approval. “That does sound lovely. A combo of sweet and savory, just the way I like it.” She put the jam in the shopping basket draped over her arm. “Do you have any other recommendations?”

I thought for a moment, considering their tastes. “Actually, yes.” I led them to the sauces and pointed to a small jar with bright orange contents. “Apricot Chipotle Sauce, perfect on white fish. Even if the fish is a bit off or muddy-tasting, as my dad sometimes complains. This sauce will make you the best cook in the Pacific Northwest.”

“Chipotle? Isn’t that hot?” Anna’s mother asked, hesitating.

I grabbed a jar, twisted off the ring, and used the edge to pop the seal. I offered them both a taste with small tester spoons from my apron. “It’s strong on its own, but over fish, it’s just right.”

They tasted it, their faces lighting up. “Oh, this is good,” Anna exclaimed.

“We’ll take it,” her mother added.

I grabbed a sealed jar and handed it to them.

“We can buy the one you opened, so it doesn’t go to waste,” Anna’s mother said.

I screwed the lid back on and dropped it in my apron pocket, then winked. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take it home. My dad loves this stuff.”

“And your mom doesn’t have a better recipe for this one?” Anna bantered with a playful glint.

I twisted the jar so the label was visible. “Wilde Growers. I’m Noah Wilde. This is my mom’s recipe.”

Her mother laughed and added another jar to the basket. “In that case, better make it two.”

I walked them to the front, where the rest of their family waited. Ruth, the farmstand owner, rang up their items and carried on a light conversation with Anna’s mother. “You chose wonderful flavors. These will really dress up your holiday meals.”

I excused myself. With no customers left in the shop, I made sure the floors got a thorough cleaning, paying extra attention to the sticky spots in the honey section and spreading out a full twenty feet in every direction. That sticky honey mess was everywhere. Finally, it was time to go home.

As I bundled into my coat and prepared to leave, Ruth called out, “Noah, those girls sure thought you were something.”

I grinned. “Just doing my job, Ruth.”

She chuckled, shaking her head. “You and your brother, Jacob, have every girl in the state under your spell.”

“Not every girl in the state, just the girls in our county!” I called back.

That’s when I heard Harvey outright laugh. Harvey was Ruth’s husband and partner in crime for forty years. In the cozy corner of the room, next to a pot-bellied stove, he relaxed in an antique wooden rocker, whittling a small stick he’d picked from the nearby woodpile. Little wood shavings littered his belly and the floor.

“Humble too,” Harvey added.

Ruth waved her hand to shush him while she packed a few items into a beautiful woven basket. “Don’t listen to him. Are you heading straight home tonight?”

“Yeah, it’s movie night. Dad is picking tonight. I think we’re watching Ghostbusters.”

“That sounds perfect. Harvey loves that one too,” Ruth said, with a nod toward her husband, who was still whittling in the corner but now also wore a grumpy frown. “Can you do me a favor on your way home?”

“Of course. Anything for you.”

“Can you drop this off at Mrs. Bean’s?”

“Sure thing.” I took the basket and peeked inside: triple chocolate scone mix, double chocolate brownie mix, hot fudge sundae sauce, a dozen hot cocoa packets, and chocolate hazelnut pirouettes. “Looks like Mrs. Bean is getting her chocolate fix.”

“Speaking of chocolate fixes, does your mom need anything? I swear, no one in the valley eats as much chocolate as your mom,” Ruth said with a grin.

I laughed. “True! Nah, not today. I picked her up some contraband yesterday, and I noticed an unopened Amazon box on the counter before coming to work. I’d bet my life she added some sort of chocolaty delight to the order.”

“That’s it then. See you next Tuesday.”

“I’ll be here,” I called over my shoulder as I carried the basket out to my truck.

The cold bit at my fingers as I fumbled with the key in the lock. When the door creaked open, it groaned in protest against the chill. I slid onto the worn leather seat, my breath fogging up the windshield as I started the truck. The engine coughed, hesitated, then rumbled to life in a slow, uneven rhythm. The dashboard lights flickered. Despite it only being six in the evening, darkness had already settled in the valley.

Snow crusted over the windshield, too thick for the wipers to handle. With a sigh, I reached behind the seat for my heavy-duty ice scraper, bracing myself as I climbed back out into the cold. The first few swipes with the brush end hardly made a dent, just squeaked against the frost. After a few minutes of steady scraping, the windshield, windows, and mirrors were clear.

I knew better than to rush it. My old truck needed time to warm up. Cold seeped into everything up here in the mountains, making metal stiff and brittle. I pulled my coat tighter around me. The fabric crackled as it brushed against the seat. The heater, like the engine, took its time. Patience, I reminded myself, was part of living here.

I reached into my pocket for my phone, hands trembling from the cold as I connected it to the portable speaker lying in the passenger seat. The pickup’s radio hadn’t picked up a decent channel in over two decades. The speaker blared to life, filling the cab with Christmas music: cheerful, bright, and wrong for a teenage male who just worked a busy Saturday.

“What in the world?” I muttered, noticing that my rock playlist had a dozen holiday songs added to the top. “Mom!” I grumbled, but no one heard. She’d gone and added all our family’s favorite Christmas songs to the top of every playlist on our shared Spotify account.

I deleted the festive tunes from my playlist. Then I scrolled through my songs until I found something that matched the night: gritty, powerful, with a beat strong enough to rattle the windows. Naturally, I cranked it up. That’s Dad’s influence for sure. Don’t tell anyone, but I know Mom blasts her late ‘90s nostalgia when she’s driving alone, Nirvana, Creed, Alanis Morissette, Ace of Base, and even Nickelback. Sure, Dad claims it’s his kind of music, but I’ve caught her pretending to prefer Amy Grant, Faith Hill, Mariah Carey, and Shania Twain ballads, like it’s motherlier or something. She can’t fool me. I know better, but I let her pretend.

I leaned back, feeling the warmth spread from the vents as the music pulsed through the truck. The defiant roar chased away the lingering cold. At last, the engine smoothed out, signaling the old girl was ready to go.

I rubbed my hands together, breathing on them for warmth before shifting the truck into reverse. I backed out of my favorite spot in the far corner of the farmstand lot. Parking way out here kept the snowplow attached out of the path of the customer’s shins.

Highway 2, heading north into Leavenworth, was at a standstill. Lucky for me, I was going south. The traffic flowed, but at about a quarter of its normal speed. A couple of miles later, it thinned out when I made the turn onto Highway 97, and most of the remaining travelers continued toward Wenatchee. As I picked up speed, the open road stretched ahead, clear of traffic, until I reached the old road paralleling the highway. I slowed to a stop, dropped the plow, and cleared the side road for Mrs. Bean and her neighbors. Despite being next to the main highway, the county was slow to plow this stretch. Mrs. Bean would need a clear path to go to church tomorrow, and if I didn’t plow it now, Dad would send me over, nice and early, before church.

Once, when she couldn’t get her car out, she threw on her late husband’s snowsuit over her Sunday best and rode his snowmobile along the ditch all the way to church. Mom had been fit to be tied when she found out, but Grandma Bean, what Jacob and I affectionately called her, loved every second. She told the story, with animation, to anyone who would listen. Jacob, then sixteen, drove the snowmobile home for her, grinning like he’d enjoyed it almost as much as she had.

I banged on her back door, the one with the sign that read, Back Door Guests Are Best. Then, cracking it open, I called, “Grandma Bean, it’s Noah. You here?”

Of course, she was here. Her car was nestled in the barn. Every light in the house was blazing, and Bing Crosby was crooning through her vintage surround sound loud enough to wake the dead.

“There’s my favorite Noah in the whole wide world!” she exclaimed, dancing into the kitchen just as I was unloading the basket and tucking her chocolate treats into the cupboard. I wrapped her in a tight hug, then twirled her twice, her laughter filling the room.

“Ruth told me she’d have you drop this off. You’ve saved me a world of trouble, my boy,” she said, beaming as she eyed the goodies.

“You and Mom both. She’s always asking me to ‘bring home a little chocolate something.’”

“You can’t blame us ladies for needing a chocolate fix now and then. Some say a bit of dark chocolate is good for the heart.”

“So, what, a lot of milk chocolate’s your way of making up the difference?” I teased.

She snapped her towel at me. “When did you get so full of spit and vinegar?”

“Who, me?” I quipped, catching the towel and pretending to flick it back at her, just for fun.

She laughed and turned on the electric kettle. “How about some cocoa?”

“I’d love some, but it’s movie night. I need to get home. Everyone’s waiting for me. Plus, you know Mom. She’ll have cocoa with our treats.” I closed the cupboard after putting away the last item and gave her another hug. “After I grab you some more wood,” I added, noticing her stock by the fireplace in the adjoining room was running low.

“Thanks, Noah. You’re a good boy,” she said as I swapped my coat for her late husband’s old work coat and lined leather gloves. I hurried out to the wood stack by the barn, grabbing as many chunks as I could carry. After two more trips, I was positive she had enough wood to last until midweek, when I’d be back again.

She hugged me tight and sent me on my way. I plowed the rest of the old highway until it reconnected with the main road. Then I raised the plow and gunned it onto the highway, urging the old beast to pick up speed before the approaching headlights got too close.

Just a few more miles stood between me and Canyon Road, where the orchards gave way to the mountains and my cherished home, Wilde Growers. My home, perched not far up Pendleton Canyon, was the last orchard in the valley. Up here, the wind howled with a ferocity only mountain dwellers understood. The isolation was both comforting and profound, as if the rest of the world had fallen away, revealing nature’s raw beauty.

The wind swirled through the leafless trees of the frozen landscape, its keening cry slicing through the barren orchards. I lowered the plow to plow the stretch of road from the highway to our home.

Just beyond our orchard, the Cascade Mountains loomed like ancient sentinels, silent witnesses to the frozen valley below. The wind roared through their passes, a wild, untamed force that reverberated through the valleys and canyons, its voice echoing off the sheer cliffs and rocky outcrops.

Ice crystals glittered like shards of broken glass in my headlights, scattering in a thousand directions as the plow threw the snow aside. Beneath their sparkle, the cold seeped into my bones. It seemed winter, with its relentless snow and biting wind, was trying to swallow me whole. I reached over and cranked the heater higher, hoping for a little more warmth.

With the last stretch plowed, I stopped and lifted the plow attachment before heading up our driveway. The slight upward slope, combined with the position of the orchards and the mountains behind us, always left us with snow piled two feet deeper there than anywhere else on the property. Dad’s truck was the only one powerful enough to handle plowing it; my little pickup could only manage on the way out. Pushing snow uphill was too much for the old girl, even if the incline was scarcely noticeable.

I gunned the pickup through the unplowed driveway. The tires spun, kicking up a spray of gravel and snow before finding traction. The drifts were so deep I had to bust through the last stretch in the true Wilde way, just like Dad taught me last year when I officially learned to drive Gun ‘er. Don’t lose control and hold on for dear life. I had been operating vehicles and farm equipment since I was too small to reach the pedals, but it wasn’t until I turned sixteen that I was deemed officially qualified, so Dad made sure I knew how to do it right.

Orchards flanked the driveway on either side, their leafless apple, cherry, and apricot branches a comforting reminder of the place I’d called home all my life. As I navigated the long drive, the familiar sights of home came into view. Snowdrifts buried the old wooden fences that lined the yard. A lone light shone from the peak of the farthest shop on the property, and at the edge of my headlights stood our house, nestled amidst the trees. Its warmly lit windows glowed like beacons, and chimney smoke curled upward into the evening sky, promising warmth after a long day’s work in town.

I drove over to the nearby shop where we kept the kids’ truck. As I opened the door, the cold winter wind hit me hard. Up here on the mountain, it can drop another ten degrees within the space of a mile. A chill ran up my spine as I hurried to get the shop door open. I braced both feet against the frame and pushed with all my strength. Slowly, the door moved as the drifts pressing against it gave way. Once I got it open wide enough, I rushed back to the truck and pulled it inside.

Tiny white flakes pelted my exposed skin like sharp slivers of ice as I crossed the distance from the shop to the house. My teeth chattered, protesting against the cold that seeped into every fiber of my being. It seemed to penetrate all the way to the marrow of my bones. Each inhalation hit my chest like a punch, and with each exhalation, a frozen mist escaped my lips. I slogged my way to the house, pushing against the relentless attack of the wind. My coat did little to shield me from the icy assault, and my boots crunched as they sank into the thick snow. I wished I had warmer gloves; my fingers stiffened as if on cue.

At the front door, I let out a long breath, watching it form a cloud of fog in the air. My freezing fingers curled around the doorknob, and I threw the door open. A welcoming rush of warmth hit me, dispelling the tension that had built up in my body.

“My land, what was that?” Mom cried, startled by my sudden entrance. “Hey Buddy, welcome home,” Dad said simultaneously, his voice warm and welcoming. Normally, Mom would’ve heard my rattly old pickup coming up the drive, but not today. The wind had swallowed the sound completely.

“Noah, come in. Get out of the cold,” she called from the kitchen, waving me in. When the wind caught the door behind me and slammed it open, she pointed over my shoulder. “My goodness, it’s a howler out there. Did you have any trouble getting home?”

Before I could respond, she smiled down at the pot she was stirring, then glanced at a cup on the counter. I nodded, shedding my snow-covered layers, thankful to be home and embraced by the warmth.

“No trouble, but I’m late because I dropped off some chocolate delights to Grandma Bean on my way home. I plowed her road and stocked her wood so she wouldn’t have to go out.”

“What a good boy you are,” Mom said, handing me a cup of hot cocoa, heated to perfection. She gave her usual double head jerk to the left, her familiar signal for me to lean down so she could kiss my cheek. Someone ought to tell her that her head jerk looked more like a nervous twitch, but it would not be me.

Honestly, it’s a charming quirk, uniquely hers. Besides, if I mentioned it, I might hurt her feelings, and that was the last thing I wanted. Hurting Mom’s feelings meant enduring one of Dad’s twenty-minute lectures about respecting women, not just Mom, but every female I’ve ever or would ever meet. I knew precisely how it would unfold and didn’t want to sit through that spiel again. Yes, you heard me right, again. I’ve had that lecture before.

At sixteen, I may look like my mom, but I’m all Wilde, like my dad. I tower over her five-foot-one-and-three-quarters-inch frame. Yet that never stopped her from getting the kiss she wanted. I bent low, careful not to spill my cocoa, and let her kiss my cheek. Then she turned her face toward me, and I kissed that perfectly round little age spot on her right cheek. It’s my favorite spot to give Tinker Bell Kisses, as our family calls them.

Jacob, my big brother, was five years old when he christened the kisses with that name, and it has stuck ever since. Most little boys that age adored Lightning McQueen or Paw Patrol, but not Jacob. His heart belonged to Tinker Bell. I still remember our family trip to Disneyland when he was six and I was four. We stood in line for what seemed like an eternity, waiting excitedly to see Tinker Bell. Just as we reached the front, an announcement informed us that her workshop had closed. The tears Jacob shed were monumental, great big crocodile tears. So many tears, I thought he might flood the entire theme park. He kept crying no matter what Mom, or I said, and especially not what Dad said. Jacob was inconsolable. To him, it was all dad’s fault. Dad had insisted we go on the Buzz Lightyear ride first. After all, it was on the way to Tinker Bell’s Workshop, and Dad was adamant about not backtracking in the Disneyland mayhem. Had we gone straight to Tinker Bell’s, Jacob wouldn’t have missed her, and he could have asked her on a date!

I made it worse when, in my youthful innocence, I declared, “You couldn’t ask her on a date, anyway. You’re not sixteen.” Those were the rules: no dating until you were sixteen, no dating the same girl twice in a row, and only double or group dates until your mission. They ingrained the rules in us since birth. Mom grew up with the same rules, and she turned out great, so we should too.

Jacob’s heartbreak lingered as a bittersweet reminder of childhood innocence and the simple wishes of a little boy. Even now, years later, every Tinker Bell Kiss carried a touch of that magic—a nod to a beloved fairy and a brother’s sweet crush.

Oh, the memories one silly little kiss on Mom’s cheek invoked. Of course, that little age spot wasn’t there when I was four. In truth, I can’t remember when I first noticed it, but when I did, I remembered thinking, aww, look, proof of all our Tinker Bell Kisses right there on Mom’s cheek.

It made me wonder if she had the same affection for the age spot as I did. I doubted it. I’d caught her trying to cover it with makeup. It was pointless. You could still see it, but don’t tell her that.

I about died with silent, gut-wrenching laughter the day I caught Mom securing lemon juice-soaked cotton balls to her face with Band-Aids, trying to lighten the spot. I ran to my room, jumped on my bed, buried my head in my pillow, and gasped with a silent yet uncontrollable belly laugh. You know the kind, silent, but your stomach jumps, and your chest shakes as you gasp for air that only comes in short, quick breaths. If you didn’t stop laughing soon, you’d pass out from lack of oxygen and die from suffocation because your head was under the pillow, all so Mom wouldn’t hear you.

I loved trips down memory lane. Speaking of which, that’s what I found when I walked into the living room carrying my steaming mug of cocoa.

In the heart of our home, amidst the gentle crackle of the fire, my middle-aged father found solace in his leather recliner, a sanctuary where time seemed to slow its relentless march. His once raven-black hair now bore the marks of wisdom, strands of silver woven like threads of moonlight amidst the darkness, a testament to the years of laughter and hard work etched upon his countenance. When anyone mentioned his graying hair, he would tilt his head to the side and swipe his hand first along one side and then the other as he declared, “This side is for Jacob, and this one for Noah. I didn’t have a single gray hair before I had kids.” He loved to make everyone laugh with his trademark dad joke. That one was his favorite.

Dad’s recliner propped up his feet under his favorite plush blanket, its comforting weight a shield against the chill of the night. His voice, deep and resonant, carried the weight of years of experience and wisdom.

Beside him, Jacob, now eighteen, reclined on the sofa. The pair, engrossed in conversation, sipped mugs of their own creamy chocolaty delight.

Jacob stood at the precipice of adulthood, his vibrant energy a stark contrast to our father’s quiet strength as he talked about his mission possibilities. His laughter was infectious, his eyes ablaze with the excitement of his unknown mission location. Yet, beneath his youthful exuberance lay a depth of emotion that belied his tender years, a sensitivity inherited from our father. Despite the difference in age, their connection transcended generations, bound by a bond that only a family could forge. I wondered if I had that same strength and wisdom. I doubted I had it yet, but I prayed fervently it would come with time.

As I came up from behind them, the world outside seemed to fade into insignificance. With a heart brimming with gratitude, I bore witness to the unique perfection that defined us, the Wilde family. We are a mosaic of imperfections held together by the unbreakable bonds of love and devotion. Each member, with their quirks and idiosyncrasies, contributed to our combined resilience and strength. These moments reminded me of life’s inherent goodness, a truth that transcended the trials and tribulations that beset us. Every hardship, every setback paled compared to the profound richness of familial love. For in the embrace of my loved ones, I found the courage to face life’s challenges head-on, fortified by the knowledge that, no matter how arduous the journey, the Wilde family stood as an unyielding bastion against the tempests of fate.

With unwavering resolve, we stood united, our backs pressed together, fists raised in defiance against the vicissitudes of the world. We were not simply individuals but a collective force to be reckoned with, an embodiment of the enduring power of family.

I listened to catch their conversation topic and then smiled, realizing Dad was telling his usual mission stories. I’d heard them before, lots of times. Jacob’s upcoming mission made them the most common conversation topic of late. Discussing Dad’s experiences in the field wasn’t a novelty. In fact, these stories had accompanied me all sixteen years of my life. Trust me, any life event has the potential to relate to one of Dad’s mission stories. Any event, and I mean any event.

“You wait and see. Soon, you will have your own stories to tell,” Mom shouted from the kitchen.

Dad’s tales brought comfort. But if I’m honest, tonight, though I longed to plop on the other couch and join them, I wanted distance. For the first time, the stories pained me instead of bringing me happiness. Jacob would soon leave us, which hurt. Although Mom and Dad accepted it, I wasn’t ready to let go.

Jacob had been a constant presence all my life. We were inseparable, my older brother and I, bound by an unbreakable bond that defied time and circumstance. From the moment I came into this world, he took on the role of my protector, my confidant, and my everything. I’d been told countless times that the second he met me, he declared me his baby, and that was it, our lives intertwined and became one. We were rarely called by our names, Jacob and Noah. No, around these parts, everyone called us The Wilde Boys.

Jacob had always been by my side, every single day of my life. Not once had we stayed anywhere without each other. I wasn’t sure anyone other than me realized this. I didn’t dare say it aloud, but I was terrified Jacob wouldn’t be with me anymore. The impending two-year gap hung heavy in the air. It cast a shadow over our parallel existence. Two years, an eternity in my young life. A period where the threads of our lives would diverge, leading us down different paths. Jacob would venture left, and I would tread right. Two separate journeys awaited us, brimming with uncertainty and uncharted territories.

A deep ache settled in my heart now, as the time had come. Duty and destiny beckoned, signaling the time for him to fulfill one of his eternal callings: to champion Israel and Let God Prevail. Hurrah for Israel! Hurrah for Israel! Hurrah for Israel!

Our tales would no longer intertwine as seamlessly as before. Instead, we would each forge our own stories, our own adventures. And while I knew that this separation was only temporary, it didn’t ease the sting of impending loss. The bond between us, though strong, would be tested by time and distance; however, I knew deep down that this was how it was meant to be. It was part of growing up, of stepping into our own destinies. I acknowledged the bitter truth. While I remained behind to finish school and worked to save enough money to pay for my future mission, I would witness his triumphs from afar. I would be a champion for his success, but heaven help me, I would miss my big brother.

“Hey, Noah,” Jacob’s voice broke through my thoughts, pulling me back to the warmth of our living room. He grinned at me, a grin so familiar it tugged at my heartstrings. “Come join us. Dad’s telling the one about the time he got lost in São Paulo and had to find his way back using a torn map he couldn’t read and a few broken phrases in Portuguese.”

I smiled back, the melancholy lifting somewhat. That story was one of Dad’s classics, filled with suspense, humor, and a lesson wrapped in his signature style. The tale never lost its charm, no matter how many times I heard it.

“Sure,” I replied, moving toward the couch. I settled in, holding my mug of cocoa close, the warmth seeping into my hands. As I sat there, surrounded by my family, listening to Dad’s voice rise and fall with the rhythm of the story, I allowed myself to savor the moment. My heart still ached, but the knowledge that this, this togetherness, this love, was what mattered most tempered it.

Jacob leaned over, nudging me with his elbow. “You’re going to be okay, little bro,” he whispered, his voice full of quiet reassurance. “We both will be.”

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak without my voice betraying the emotions churning inside me. He knew me. My perfect brother knew the imperfect me, and when he was the one heading into the unknown, he saw what I needed and offered me comfort. I took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scents of home: Mom’s cooking, the pinewood from the fireplace, the faint hint of Dad’s aftershave that lingered in the air. I let those scents ground me, anchoring me to this moment, to this place where I belonged.

Dad’s story reached its climax, his hands gesturing vigorously as he recounted the moment he finally found his way back to his apartment, much to the relief of his mission companion, who spoke even less of the language than Dad. Jacob laughed, the sound bright and full of life, and I couldn’t help but join in.

For tonight, I would set aside the worries of tomorrow. I would bask in the warmth of family, in the love that had carried us through every storm. Regardless of life’s journey, I held onto the hope that the bond between the Wilde boys would endure. Like Dad’s story, we’d always find our way back with a torn map of our life and faith.

The fire crackled in the hearth as the snow continued to fall outside, bringing a sense of peace over me. The journey ahead might be uncertain, but tonight, surrounded by those I loved, I knew I was ready to face it, whatever it might bring.

“Are we ready for a movie?” Jacob asked as Dad finished his story. He snatched up the remote and found the movie as we all declared a resounding “yes.”