Page 95 of When Lemons Give You Life

“I spent so long trying to prove to Griff that I wasn’t a screwup. That I wasn’t just this . . . loud, messy, chaotic disappointment he had to put up with.” The words feel fragile and enormous all at once. “But it was never going to happen. He was never going to give me that gold star. And even if he could, I know now it wouldn’t miraculously fix me.” I let out a breath. “I have to stop waiting around for him to acknowledge me. And start doing things because they’re right for me. For us.”

Frank shuffles closer and puts his arm around me.

I trace a fingertip around the rim of the container. “I see how naive it all was now. Especially after Beau got sick. By the time I came back into Griff’s life, he was already unraveling. If he couldn’t show up for me before, when Mum died, he certainly didn’t have the emotional reserves to do it then. He was too busy holding himself together with whatever scraps were left.”

Frank pulls me in close. “It must have been so awful to watch Beau disappear.”

“I didn’t just watch Beau fade; I watched Griff start to fall apart too. He gave up everything to care for Beau. His restaurant, his reputation. His identity. And long before Griff’s own diagnosis, I could see it—something in him was slipping. Not his mind, not yet. But the part of him that lit up around food. There were so many heartbreaking moments in all of it, but one thing broke me more than the rest.”

“What was that?”

“The day Griff stopped cooking.”

61

Griff (age 62)

July 2023

The kettle clicks off. I don’t move. I’m still holding the countertop, like if I let go, I’ll fall through the floor.

Across the kitchen, Beau stares into the pantry, his pajama top buttoned wrong. He looks like he’s searching for something familiar in a stranger’s cupboard.

“Would you like tea or coffee?” I ask gently.

He turns, his brow pinched. ‘What’s the difference again?”

I clear my throat. “One’s brown water. The other’s brown water that actually tastes like something.”

That gets a quiet laugh and I grab on to it like a rope.

“The one you make,” he says. “I like that one best.”

I pour the coffee. Guide him to his spot at the table.

He touches the wood grain like it’s the first time. “This is . . . ours, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. You dragged me to seven furniture stores before you chose it.”

“Did I?”

“Yes, and you made a great choice.” I smile.

Beau has taken his diagnosis like he takes everything else—with more concern for others than for himself. He rubs his right eyebrow. “I’m sorry I’m sick, Griffy. I should’ve noticed earlier. You must be so tired.” He says this repeatedly, as if dementia is a parking fine, a mistake he’s made.

I take his hands in mine, willing him to stay with me, but he is slipping fast.

My phone pings. It’s from my former pastry chef.

Just wanted to say again how much I’m loving the MG. Finally had the chance to take her to Apollo Bay on the weekend. Drives like a dream!

My stomach turns. I tilt the screen away and lock it quickly so Beau won’t see.

I can still hear him, cheery behind the wheel, as we set off on one of our Monday drives. He drove like the car and he were one. And I trusted him completely.

Until I didn’t. I remember the fear, the white of my knuckles as they gripped the seat. The neighbor’s garage bin knocked to the ground. The moment I realized I could no longer be a passenger, in the car or in our marriage.

I sold it. Out of sight, out of mind—for him, maybe. For me? I hear the engine every time I step into the shower. Still feel the betrayal clinging to my skin. Selling the car was like having an affair, only there were no other arms to run to. No one I’d ever let in.