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Mo steps into his embrace—a testament to how close our families have been over the years. And probably to how close she’s remained to mine.
“It’s great to see you again, sweetheart.”
“You too, Mr. Allen.”
Dad scoffs. “What did I say about calling me that? It’s Sawyer.”
Putting his arm around her shoulders, he leads her into the house. I follow, and when she tips her head back and laughs at something he says, I can’t help but feel like this is right where she belongs.
Monroe
After dinner, Vivian insists we eat dessert outside. She grabs the plates and forks, along with a pitcher of tea. Rhett picks up the apple pie, and I push my dad outside.
“Here you go, Daddy.” I situate his wheelchair as close to the table as it can get. Vivian serves the pie on paper plates, pushing one over in front of my dad.
Out of habit, I grab his fork, and Dad glares at me as best he can. “I c-could’ve gotten th-that.”
“I know you could’ve.”
Rather than putting the fork in his hand, I hold it out and wait for him to take it. Then I step back.
“Here you go, dear.” Vivian hands me a plate, but I politely decline.
“Oh, no, thank you. It looks fantastic, but I’m stuffed from dinner.”
“Well, then, more for me.” Rhett takes my plate from his mother, and we sit down at the table.
Eating out—or at another person’s house—isn’t something Dad and I do. In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times we’ve done this in the last six years. A million scenarios float around my head as I watch Dad guide an unsteady hand toward the pie.
What if he spills his food or drops his fork—which he often does—and gets embarrassed? Or worse yet, what if the chicken and dumplings goes right through him and I can’t get him to the bathroom in time?
I clearly didn’t think this through when we agreed to come over.
As best as he can, Dad scoops a chunk of pie onto his fork. It wobbles precariously, and I reach out, wrapping my hand around his to steady it. Together we guide it to his mouth.
I wait for him to chew, and when he reaches for another bite, I scoot closer. Only this time, Dad shakes his head and pulls the fork away.
“N-no, Mo,” he says with as much authority as he can muster.
“I’m just trying to help you, Dad.”
“I d-don’t want your h-help.”
“Dad—”
His sharp gaze causes the words to die on my tongue.
“A-all through dinner you h-hovered over m-m-me.”
“I don’t hover.”
“Yes, y-you do. It’s embarrassing, M-Mo.”
His soft-spoken words settle low in my gut, causing a ripple of nausea. Is that what I do? I think back over all the times I’ve fed him or taken over after he’s tried so hard to do something on his own, and tears fill my eyes.
On the edge of losing my shit in front of everyone, I excuse myself from the table and walk toward the house. For the first time since his stroke, I don’t go to my father when he calls out for me.
The door shuts quietly behind me—either that or I just can’t hear it because of the blood rushing in my ears. Bracing my hands on the counter, I lower my head.
