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Out of breath from the half mile full-on sprint, I fumbled up the porch steps of the cabin. I bent over trying to catch my breath while racking sobs came falling out of me. It felt as if everything or everyone I loved was being stripped away from me. I thought my last name precluded me from romantic love, but now I realized it was on a mission from hell to take everything I loved. I should probably do some family research on the Loveless side to see what horrible misdeed had been done in the past for me to deserve such a fate. Maybe I wasn’t the only one, but as far as I knew no else on my biological father’s side was as unlucky in love as me. I got wedding invitations all the time from cousins I hardly knew.
Once I caught my breath, I fumbled with the thermometer near the pink door where we hid the spare key to the cabin. Stepping into the cabin was like entering a museum dedicated to the eighties and my parents. The floral-patterned baby blue furniture got me every time. How did Mom think that looked good? Anders must have really loved her. There was not a hint of masculinity in the small, two-bedroom cabin with pink ruffled curtains and fake flowers in several vases. I swore it still smelled like Mom, a hint of cinnamon and gardenia lingered in the air. I’m not sure how much she used to visit this little place, but I had followed her out here once when I was sixteen. I watched her through the window crying over the wedding photo of her and Anders that rested on the mantle now. She was lovely in a simple white cotton gown. My biological father wore slacks, a white shirt, and a hideous wide paisley tie. But the way they stared at each other with wonder in their eyes said it all.
I waited for her that day on the porch and asked her why she came out here and why she was crying. She took my hand and said, “Baby girl, the kind of love that made you is the kind that never dies. There is room in my heart for both of the men that love us.”
With tears streaming down my cheeks, I walked over to the mantle and picked up the old photo encased in an etched glass frame. Next to it was a baby photo of me. I had to say I was a beautiful baby, with lots of dark hair and big eyes. I peaked early, even though I had chubby thighs then too. If only everyone thought they were still cute. The last photo on the mantle was of both of my dads dressed in their combat gear. Two handsome, smiling men stared back at me. Brothers in arms and in spirit. I ran my fingers across the glass, wishing I knew what to do to bring Dad’s smile back. I felt as if I had lost both men.
I took the wedding photo and curled up on the couch with it. I hoped it would make me feel less lonely. Perhaps my parents would know I needed them, and I could feel them somehow and the love that used to fill this place. While I waited for them to get the memo, I looked around, thankful I at least had this place. Dad had promised it would always be mine. I always thought it was sweet that Dad maintained it, even making sure the cleaning crew came in once a month to dust the place.
I also began to wonder how Anders felt about my mom moving on so quickly with Dad. And how maybe Dad was right, there were things I just didn’t understand. Obviously Mom loved both men with all her heart. And I was thankful Mom had married Dad. He was the best Dad growing up. Not only did he quiet fears in the middle of the night, but he was present. He never missed a soccer or football game. He was a shoulder to cry on, like when I was voted homecoming queen, but no one asked me to go to the dance. I had to ask my friend Micah to be my escort. I only won because I was fun and everyone’s best friend. Dad told me that day that the right boy would come around, but he still wouldn’t be good enough for me. I wanted to believe him.
I hugged the picture tighter. Perhaps I had been too judgmental. Maybe Dad had room in his heart for two women and it didn’t mean he loved Mom any less. But why Josephine? Sure, she was beautiful, but did she make him happy? I didn’t see that she did unless it was in private. And maybe that was it. Perhaps that’s what Dad was talking about when he said I didn’t understand. I wanted to. I really did, because it wasn’t only me who thought Josephine was a questionable choice.
