And now, I’ve fallen in love with one.
With my heart in my throat, I make my way to my childhood home. I’ve got so many amazing memories under this roof. But I also have a lot of painful ones.
I understand why Dad never wanted to move out. Mom is everywhere we look. But at times, I’ve wondered if it’s held us back.
As soon as I move toward the front door, it opens, and I find my dad standing there in a shirt and slacks, just like he still does for every holiday, because Mom loved it when we all dressed up.
“Care Bear,” he announces, allowing me to hear the crack in his voice.
He might be putting on a good show, like he’s done every year since she’s passed, but he still feels the loss just as potently as I do.
“Daddy, Happy Thanksgiving,” I say stepping into his arms and hugging him as tightly as he does me.
I want to say that the house smells amazing and my stomach rumbles on cue, but that’s not the case.
“Did you put the turkey in at the time I told you?”
I look up just in time to watch guilt pass over his face.
“I forgot to set my alarm,” he confesses.
“Dad,” I laugh as I slip past him and into the house. “You promised you had it under control.”
In the past, I’ve stayed over the night before to take care of the cooking. I’m not a good cook, and neither is Dad, but we’vemanaged over the years. But last night, I couldn’t be here. How was I going to sneak a six-foot-five hockey god into the house without anyone realizing?
Of course, I didn’t tell Dad the real reason for staying away this year, and thankfully, he didn’t question me. Instead, he just assured me that he had it all under control.
Apparently, he did not.
Walking straight over to the oven, I peer inside to find our turkey not quite as cooked or as golden as it should be by this time.
“So…dinner is going to be late then,” I deadpan.
“Meh, it’s not like we’ve got anyone else waiting for it.”
His words are meant to be a joke, but they fall a little far from the mark.
“Right, well, roll your sleeves up, old man. We’ve got to prep the rest.”
“Less of that,” he mutters as he does as he’s told and walks to the sink to wash his hands.
I chuckle, but it doesn’t come as easy as it would on any other day.
We work seamlessly, getting the rest of our dinner prepped before we reward ourselves with a beer and head for the couch to watch the parade.
Dad sits in the spot he has for as long as I remember, and I curl my feet beneath me in the corner of the sectional where Mom used to sit. It weirdly makes me feel closer to her, knowing that if she were still here, this is exactly where she’d be. Well, unless she was fussing with everything in the kitchen to ensure we had the most perfect day. She always tried so hard, ensuring we had all the trimmings. But in reality, all we needed was each other. Dad and I didn’t care about having the most succulent turkey or the perfect pumpkin pie. Thanksgiving was never about the food; it was about family, and it was never more obvious than the year we became a member short.
I let out a pained sigh as one of the alarms on my cell bleeps, uncurling my legs and standing.
“I know it’s hard, Care Bear. But it’s getting better, right?” The emotion in Dad’s voice is like a knife through my chest.
He needs me to give him hope, but I’m not sure how much I have.
“She’d want us to keep living. She’d want us smiling, laughing, and making the best of life.” I swear, I say something like this every holiday season, but it feels different this year. Something has shifted in me, and there’s this nagging feeling inside me that I’m finally going to be able to enjoy the holidays again—all the while leaving Dad behind to continue grieving.
“It’s okay to move on, Dad. To find happiness elsewhere. It doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten or that you don’t still love her.”
He swallows thickly, his eyes glistening.
