“Good point. Smart thing like you—you’d make a good program director.”
Huh. That isn’t the worst idea. A way to stay involved with a work I’m passionate about without feeling like a 24-hour all you can eat buffet. But … “You don’t know if I’m smart,” I say, giving him a doubtful smile.
The guys look at each other, and Mike rolls his eyes. “Your dad showed us your report cards, kid.”
“What?” I laugh. “I never sent my dad my report cards.”
“Your mom did,” Mike says, no idea the effect his words are having on me. “After she divorced him, she only sent letters when it was something about you.”
“Which was a lot,” Joey says from a few feet back. “Made me feel like my kids were complete idiots.”
“Well, they take after you, don’t they?” Mike says, and they all start laughing, and Joey punches Mike in the arm. I laugh with them, but the feeling in my heart is sweet and tender.
Mom sent Dad letters about me?
We’ve reached Dad’s gravesite, and as I look at the cold stone, love warms me from my feet up. My mom cared enough to make sure my dad knew how I was doing. My dad cared enough to brag about me … constantly, from the sound of it.
And these men cared enough about my dad—my flawed, complicated, moody, big-hearted, loving dad—to come honor and celebrate him. And because they cared about him, they care about me, too.
Looking at all of these people around my dad’s grave, I break into a smile. This isn’t the release party I wanted for my dad. No Pinterest-worthy reunion pictures, no storybook closure, and no true love by my side. Oliver was probably right about my parents: Dad wasn’t the saint and Mom definitely wasn’t the villain.
But I was right, too. I had a good dad growing up. A flawed, human dad who made a mistake that he paid for. A mistake my whole family paid for.
It’s not what I wanted—life has never given me what I wanted—but it’s time for me to be brave and hold on to what I have.
It would be so easy to let anger and bitterness turn me inward. To curl into a ball and give up. I don’t want to live small anymore, though. I want to laugh loud and love big. I want to put myself out there, even if it means risking heartache. I want every step forward to be like a new track on the playlist my Dad started for me years ago—a concept album where each song adds to an overall story of beauty, pain, redemption, and a lifetime of second chances.
I can’t live for everyone else anymore. But I won’t survive if I close myself off.
There has to be a middle ground—a path forward that lets me accept the mess beside the beauty and to build something lasting from it.
So I’ll keep moving. Without my dad. Without the man I built so many dreams around.
I didn’t choose this road, but Iwillfind joy in the journey.
It’s who I am.
I love that about myself.
The cold has seeped through my coat by the time we head back inside. My fingers are numb, and my cheeks sting from the wind and tears. But my heart—my heart feels lighter than it has in years.
Uncle Bill holds the door for everyone, and the warmth of the fellowship hall wraps around me like a hug. The ‘80s music is still playing—Depeche Mode now, “Enjoy the Silence,” one of Dad’s favorites.
Aunt Marla is cutting the cake she brought, and Mike is telling another story about Dad that has Joey doubled over laughing.
I grab a cup of hot cider and lean against the wall, just watching. Just being.
For the first time in so long, I’m not running. Not hiding. Not trying to be enough for everyone else.
I’m just ... here.
Andthat’senough.
CHAPTER THIRTY
FLETCH
Istand just beyond the church doors in the frosty December air—colder on the inside than on the outside—until Darren Murphy tells me the wedding is about to start.
