Page 2 of Worth the Fall

EIGHT YEARS LATER

I’d been dubbed “thegrumpy one” ever since Jenna had died.Grumpy O’Grady.As if my brothers calling me that would force a smile to my face or somehow make me less grumpy.Idiots.The only person who made me happy was Clarabel, my perfect angel of a daughter. The best thing in my life. My purpose. My reason for not giving up in those first couple of years. Without her, I was convinced that I wouldn’t have gotten through it. The pain had been all-consuming on the days she seemed to need me the most.

My daughter had saved me.

And today was her eighth birthday. Eight years that Jenna had missed. That was what made me the most somber. The moments that Jenna would never know. She had given birth to this wonderful human, and she didn’t even get to appreciate a single minute of it.

Jenna’s parents had stayed in Sugar Mountain a couple of years after her death, probably to make sure I pulled through the grief, but it eventually became too hard. Memories haunted them at every turn, and they felt like they couldn’t escape the pain, no matter how hard they tried. It chased them. They moved out of state, but stayed in touch, video-chatted and came to visit whenever it seemed like they could stomach it.

They never blamed me for Jenna’s death, but I knew that seeing me made them sad instead of happy. The same thing went for Clarabel. Looking at her was a constant reminder of their own daughter and the pain that came from losing her. Clarabel had Jenna’s eyes and her lopsided smile. There had been so much hope and happiness back then, but it’d all died when she did.

I was never upset that they’d moved away. I felt like I understood. Their grief was different from mine. It wasn’t something that ended. Losing a child was like losing a limb; you constantly wished for it back. And moving forward felt impossible.

“Parents aren’t supposed to outlive their children,” they used to say through an endless stream of tears.

Their hearts never seemed to mend.

Unlike my own, which had stopped aching for Jenna the way that it once had years ago. I knew it sounded shitty, but being with her felt like another lifetime. I could barely remember what it had been like. What she was like. We were both twenty-three when we first got together.

I’d known who Jenna was back in high school, but we weren’t exactly friends. When our paths crossed one night when I went to the saloon after work, I asked her out on the spot. I remembered her friends cheering after she said yes.

We’d only been dating for ten months before we found out we were pregnant. One broken condom was all it had taken to alter the course of our lives. I proposed the next day. We were married at the courthouse the following week. Not because it wasthe right thing to do, but because we wanted to. I had been a different person then—younger, carefree, naive.

I wasn’t that person anymore.

Thomas O’Grady was a single dad with responsibilities to a small person who counted on him day in and day out. My daughter was all that mattered. And all that was left of my and Jenna’s relationship were a handful of framed photographs scattered throughout the house that I barely even remembered taking.

“Dad, when will the uncles get here?” Clarabel bounced down the stairs and into the living room, her long brown hair still in tangles from sleeping the night before.

“I told you that they’re on their way. They have to pick up stuff for your party first,” I said for the fifth time today as I reached for her hair and held it between my fingers. “Go get the brush.”

“Me and my hair are waiting for Uncle Patrick,” she declared as she maneuvered out of my grasp.

“And why is that?” I sipped my coffee as I waited for her to answer as to why my middle brother needed to be the one to brush her hair and not her wonderful father.

“Because he knows how to French braid.”

“I know how to braid!” I exclaimed, wanting to be her first choice in everything.

“French braid, Daddy. He knows how to French braid. They’re not the same thing.”

“Oh. Okay then. Wait for Patrick, the French-braid extraordinaire,” I agreed, but had no idea what the hell she was talking about. I’d find out though. Before the day was over, I’d know the difference between a braid and a French braid. And I’d make Patrick teach me how to do one.

And then I’d do it better than he ever could.

So, I’m a little competitive. Sue me.

I watched as she opened up the refrigerator and grabbed a fresh-squeezed orange juice. She twisted off the top, took a long sip out of the single-serve bottle, and then put it back on the shelf where it belonged. It was little moments like these when I realized how grown-up she was getting. She used to need me to open the fridge for her and then the top as well. Now, she could do it all herself.

Time was moving way too fast for my liking.

“Going back upstairs. Let me know when the uncles get here!” she shouted with a smile as she bounced away.

On her way up, she stopped at her favorite picture of her mom hanging on the wall and gave it a kiss, like she always did. “It’s my birthday today, Mom. I’m eight. I know you know that, but I like telling you. Wish you were here. I miss you. I’m sorry you died.”

My eyes started to mist over, but I quickly pulled it together. Clarabel knew that her birthday was the same day of her mom’s death, but somehow, we’d been able to make it a happy occasion instead of a sad one. Knowing that your mom had died after giving birth to you was something that could really screw up a person, and no one wanted that to happen to Clara. She was too pure. Too good. And it wasn’t her fault.

“Where is my perfect princess?” my youngest brother, Matthew, shouted as he threw the front door open, cradling Clara’s cake in his arms.

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