Chapter 4

The peace I had built was shattered. A week after Molly's accident, a shiny black Mercedes SUV pulled up my long, gravel driveway. It was Nicole. She got out, looking completely out of place in her designer jeans and high-heeled boots, which sank into the mud.

"Ethan!" she called out, as if we were old friends. "I found you! Your YouTube channel is amazing. I had no idea."

I didn't stop my work, continuing to plane a long piece of Douglas fir for the bar top of my future brewery. "How did you find me, Nicole?"

"Your videos, silly. You can see the peak of Mount Jefferson from your porch. It wasn't hard to triangulate from there." She smiled, proud of her detective work.

"This is private property," I said, not looking at her. "You're trespassing."

"Don't be like that," she said, her voice wheedling. "I brought groceries. I thought I could make you dinner. To thank you for... you know, coming to the hospital."

She started unloading bags from her car. I saw expensive cuts of meat, organic vegetables, things she would never have known how to cook. This was a performance.

"I don't want you here," I said. "I don't want your dinner. Leave."

She ignored me, carrying the bags onto the porch. "Molly misses you. She asks about you all the time. She needs her father."

She was using our daughter as a pawn, a tool to get what she wanted. The manipulation was so transparent it was insulting. For the next two weeks, it was a campaign of harassment. She showed up unannounced, sometimes with Molly, whose leg was now in a heavy cast. Nicole would try to "help" with the chores, clumsily attempting to sweep the porch or wash dishes, things she had never done in her life. She' d bring Molly, propping her up in a lawn chair to watch me work, a silent, sad spectator in our broken drama.

Each time, I was cold and dismissive. I told her to leave. I ignored Molly's sad eyes. I had to. Any crack in my armor and she would wedge her way back in, bringing all the toxicity of the Anderson family with her.

The final straw came when I found her trying to do my laundry, having mixed a load of whites with my greasy work jeans, ruining everything.

"What are you doing, Nicole?" I yelled, the frustration finally boiling over.

"I'm helping!" she cried, holding up a pair of now-grey socks. "I'm trying to show you I can change! That we can be a family again!"

"There is no 'we'," I said, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous calm. "There is no family. There is just you, trespassing on my property and harassing me. If you come back here again, I will call the police."

That night, I told my friends I was taking a trip. I packed a bag, my brewing notes, and my camera gear into the Ranger. I left no forwarding address. I didn't tell anyone where I was going.

I hit the road, heading east. My YouTube channel changed. It was no longer about rebuilding a farmhouse; it was about a journey. "Cascade Craft on the Road." I visited small, independent breweries across the country, from Idaho to Colorado, from Texas to Tennessee. I interviewed brewers, shared their stories, and documented the vast, beautiful, and lonely landscapes of America. My location was always changing. I was a ghost on the highway, untraceable. And for the first time, I felt truly free.