What Remains of Us | Book 1- Baker and Yvonne

Yvonne stared at the suitcase sitting at the foot of her bed. It had been open for the last thirty minutes, and yet, all she had managed to pack was a single pair of sneakers and a sweater she hadn't worn in years. The thought of going away for the weekend felt foreign, intrusive, like forcing a smile through a storm.

"Girl, if you stare at that thing any longer, it's gonna pack itself."

Erica's voice floated from the doorway, dry and impatient, as she leaned against the frame, arms crossed. She looked effortlessly put together in a fitted athleisure set, her curls pulled into a high ponytail that somehow screamed both casual and expensive.

Yvonne sighed, rubbing her temples. "I don't know why I let you talk me into this."

"Because," Erica said, stepping into the room and grabbing a handful of clothes from Yvonne's dresser without permission, "I love you, and you need this." She tossed a few tops and jeans into the suitcase without so much as folding them. "Also, because you promised not to turn into a hermit, and I have a sworn duty to make sure that doesn't happen."

Yvonne gave her a flat look. "I did no such thing."

Erica smirked. "Maybe not out loud, but I know you, and if I hadn't forced this trip on you, you'd be spending another weekend in sweatpants, eating overpriced ice cream, and binge-watching legal dramas that remind you of—"

"Alright!" Yvonne snapped, cutting her off, holding up a hand. "Point made."

"Good." Erica zipped the suitcase shut with a flourish. "Now, let's go."

The retreat was nestled in the heart of the Smoky Mountains, a quiet and secluded space meant for reflection, healing, and, apparently, a whole lot of feelings. The lodge itself was beautiful—rustic woodwork, wraparound porches overlooking a serene lake, and a sky so clear it felt like God Himself had wiped away every speck of dust.

Yvonne sat through the first couple of sessions with mild detachment, nodding when appropriate, clapping when others shared their journeys of loss, heartbreak, and resilience. But inside, she still felt stuck, like a rusty gear refusing to turn.

On the second evening, the retreat instructor, a middle-aged woman with silver-streaked hair and the kind of voice that could calm a hurricane, gathered the women for an exercise.

"We are going to let go tonight," she announced, standing at the edge of the rocky cliff that overlooked the valley below. "Whatever is weighing on you, whatever burdens your heart, you are going to stand here, and you are going to give it away to God. You will not carry it home."

The women lined up, one by one stepping forward to scream their grievances into the open air.

"I release my grief!" One woman shouted, her voice shaking.

"I am more than what he left behind," another sobbed.

"I forgive you, Mama," a third whispered before breaking into tears.

Each story added a layer of weight to the night, each cry a ripple across the valley.

Then it was Yvonne's turn.

She hesitated.

Her feet felt rooted to the ground, her chest tight. Everyone was watching. Waiting.

The instructor stepped beside her and spoke gently, "God is listening, Yvonne. Say whatever you need to say."

Yvonne opened her mouth. At first, nothing came out. Then, a whisper.

"I don't know how to let go."

The instructor nodded. "Start there."