Page 109 of One Last Thing Before You Go

I flip through the journal, words jumping out at me, calling to be read. But I need a minute before I move on.

“Thank you.” My mother kisses my cheek. “For making me listen to this. It’s… incredibly difficult because I did really care for your father. But I appreciate it. I needed to hear this.”

I swallow once, shrugging. “Yeah.”

“How about I make us some breakfast so we can keep reading together? I’ll take the day off from work.”

We spend the time flipping through journals, picking out random years and months, going as far back as the day he met my mother.

It’s wild to me, how he was able to record his entire life in these journals without missing a single day, the oldest one dating back to his first year of teaching. By the end of the day, we still have years and years to go through, but I feel like I’ve gotten one step closer to getting to know him.

“What do you know about his life in Scotland? About growing up there and his family?”

“Not much,” my mother admits between sniffles. “I know the name of his hometown and a bit about his childhood, but I never met any family members of his. Never knew him to be too open about them. I did know he missed Scotland quite often. He’d visit at least once a year, but I never went with him, obviously. He invited me several times, but… I never agreed for some reason. It didn’t feel right.”

“Do you know when he moved to the US?”

“Right after he finished his doctorate in Cambridge. He chose to pursue teaching in an American university. Said it was his way of doing charity work for illiterate populations.” She smirks, as if getting caught in a memory.

I laugh softly. “What an ass.”

“Yeah.” Mom sighs deeply, wistful. “But I think he always planned on going back.”

I nod. “He had told his friends the same. Except that he didn’t want to leave me behind.

We weren’t even talking, and he stayed here, just in case I chose to forgive him.”

Guilt doesn’t even begin to describe the depth of my emotions now. The regret. The despair.

“Ma. You certainly were the origin of this… this misunderstanding. But all three of us are at fault, here. He could’ve cleared things up and asked to come see me—especially when he found out he was sick. He should’ve talked to me and told me the truth. And I could’ve grown the fuck up and tried to talk to him, too. I could’ve sat down and let him explain everything to me. Forgive him. And now he died the way he did, alone.”

She gasps. “He was alone?”

“Not literally. Not the moment it happened. Lottie. She… She was one of his employees. She was there.” Just saying her name makes me wince—another slice, another ache. “But what I mean is, he got sick and went through all that alone. He didn’t tell anyone. He knew he was dying and chose to keep it quiet.”

“Oh.”

“All I’m saying is, you’re not the only one who should feel guilt. There’s enough blame to go around.”

“Still, I’m sorry for the role I played in this. You deserved better.”

I exhale, pushing my fingers through my hair. I lean back against the couch and stare up at the ceiling. “God. How did everything get so messed up?”

“Well, what you just said. With⁠—”

I shake my head and put my face in my hands. “Not just us. With… other people, too.”

“You mean with that girl you’ve been seeing? Is it the one you just mentioned?”

“How did you… How did you know I was seeing someone?”

“You haven’t stayed in one place for more than a couple of weeks since art school. In the past, you would’ve been there to help, but there’s no way you would’ve been able to stay there for longer than a month without taking an impromptu trip to some desolate place or something.”

“I went to a B&B in Vermont for a weekend away. Does that count?”

She snorts. “No. It sounds more like a romantic getaway, not a Knox getaway.”

I snort. “You’re not wrong.”