Page 14 of Love You Madly

I drive in silence, Sara asleep in the backseat, a determination rising inside me like a fire that won’t be snuffed out. This is the beginning of a new chapter—for me, for Sara, for our future. One where Adam’s deceit no longer has a place. One where I am in control, not his lies.

When we arrive at my mom’s house, she opens the door and embraces us with warmth and love. “I knew this was coming, sweetheart. I’m so proud of you for standing up for yourself.”

“A heads up would have been nice then, Mom. I don’t need an ‘I could have told you that,’ right now.”

“Honey, do you have any idea how stubborn you truly are? If I had told you that I thought it was a bad idea for you and Adam to get a new place together, you would have done it just to spite me.”

Okay, she’s not wrong.

“You’re strong, Callie. You’ll get through this,” she continues. “But you had to get there on your own. You had to make this decision by yourself. No one could make this choice for you, my sweet girl.”

I nod in understanding, tears streaming down my face. “Thank you, Mom. I’m just… so tired.”

She hugs me tighter, her voice soft and comforting. “I know, honey. I know. Wayne and I are here for you. Every step of the way.”

I take a deep breath, feeling a glimmer of peace. This is thestart of a new journey. It’s not the new journey I thought I was starting ten days ago. But it’s one where I’ll find my own strength and build a better future for myself and my children.

As I settle into my old room at my mom’s house, a wave of relief washes over me. Despite the circumstances, I feel grateful that I at least got what I wanted by temporarily moving with Adam to the new house. Now, I can stay here at my mom’s with Sara and not have to worry about seeing him. It’s a small comfort in the midst of this chaos, but I’ll take it. My mom and Wayne are a steady presence, offering support and understanding without judgment. It’s a stark contrast to the tumultuous relationship I had with Adam, and I find solace in the familiar surroundings of my childhood home.

six

DO YOU REALIZE - THE FLAMING LIPS

OWEN - APRIL 14, 2013

The day of Teddy’s funeral feels like another punch to the gut, one I’ve been dreading since the moment Mom called to tell me he was gone. We put off the funeral as long as we could, not just to get the logistics in order, but to give ourselves time to breathe. But there’s no time long enough to prepare for this. My uncle, the man who was like a second father to me, is gone. And now I’m standing outside this church, feeling like a fraud, about to walk in and say goodbye to someone I can’t imagine living without.

I lean against the cool stone of the church, trying to steady my breathing. I’ve never been a religious person, and Teddy wasn’t either, not really. But this was his request—a simple service at a place he rarely stepped foot in. The irony isn’t lost on me. I glance at the sky. At least the weather is decent, which feels like a small mercy. Midwest springs are unpredictable at best, but today the sun is shining, a calm backdrop to the storm raging inside me.

People filter into the church, familiar faces I can’t quite focus on. I catch a glimpse of Debra standing near the entrance, her face tight with barely-concealed frustration. She’s been on edge since Serena showed up. Debra hasn’t said a word, but the tension between them is palpable. I can feel it from across the parking lot.

Serena—my aunt, Teddy’s ex-wife—has every right to be here. She and Teddy may have divorced years ago, but they shared a life and two children. She’s part of this, whether Debra likes it or not. But Debra’s hurt, and I get that too. Teddy found a second chance at happiness with her, and now it feels like Serena’s presence is muddying those waters. It’s complicated, like everything in this family.

I quit the tranquilizers a few weeks ago, not long after Teddy passed, thinking I needed to feel something, anything, even if it hurt. But now, standing here, I’m starting to regret it. Every emotion is raw and sharp, threatening to pull me under. My heart is pounding, my hands clammy as I shove them into my pockets. My throat feels tight, like there’s not enough air in the world to fill my lungs. It feels like I’m drowning, like the weight of everything is pressing down on my chest.

I take a deep breath, trying to focus. Five things I can see. Four things I can touch. But all I can feel is the crushing weight of this day, the panic lurking just beneath the surface. I can’t fall apart. Not here. Not now.

Across the parking lot, I see Dad with Beverly. He’s comforting her, even though he’s the one who should be getting support. Dad and Teddy were brothers-in-law for thirty years, and here Beverly is, soaking up all the sympathy like she’s the only one who’s lost something. I bite back the bitterness, knowing it won’t help. Grief makes people act in strange ways. I can’t blame her for falling apart, even if it annoys me. Everyone handles loss differently, right?

Inside the church, everything feels too close, too stifling. The scent of lilies is overpowering, clinging to the air along with the faint aroma of incense. It’s strange to be here in this church, listening to the priest drone on about a man who rarely set foot in a place like this. Teddy wasn’t religious—he was more comfortable out on the farm, surrounded by animals, or cracking open a beer at family barbecues. But this is what he wanted, and so here we are.

Teddy’s urn sits at the front, a simple thing. No coffin, no heavy rituals. Just an urn, and a priest reciting verses that feel disconnected from the man I knew. The real goodbye will come later, when we scatter his ashes at the farm—his true resting place. This service feels like a formality, something we’re doing for the sake of tradition, even though none of us truly belong here.

The slideshow starts, images of Teddy flickering on the screen—moments frozen in time. Teddy laughing at the lake, Teddy holding a newborn puppy at the vet clinic, Teddy with a beer in his hand, smiling like the world hadn’t thrown him any curveballs. Each picture is a punch to the gut, a reminder of everything we’ve lost. The knot in my chest tightens, and I find myself blinking back tears I promised I wouldn’t shed.

I glance over at Vince and Malcolm. They’re sitting a few rows ahead, stiff and silent, their faces unreadable. This is harder for them than anyone. They’ve lost their dad. No matter how close I was to Teddy, I can’t touch the depth of what they’re feeling. I want to be there for them, to help hold them up, but I’m barely keeping myself together. The grief is too thick, too overwhelming.

The priest is still talking, and I can’t focus. His voice fades into the background as I lose myself in memories of Teddy—his rough laugh, the way he’d ruffle my hair and tell me everything would be alright, even when it wasn’t. He was always there when Dad wasn’t, filling in the gaps, making me feel like I mattered. Now, there’s just this empty space, and I don’t know how to fill it.

I feel a tear slip down my cheek, and I wipe it away quickly, hoping no one noticed. The pressure in my chest builds, the familiar grip of panic wrapping itself around my lungs. I try to breathe through it—in for four, hold for four, out for four—but it’s not working. The walls are closing in, and the urge to run is overwhelming. But I can’t. Not yet.

In the basement of the church, the reception is as awkward as I expected. The air is thick with the smell of casseroles and cheap coffee, and people mill about, talking in hushed tones like they don’t know what else to say. The slideshow from the service continues to flicker across the screen, images of Teddy cycling in and out of view, a never-ending loop of his life. It feels surreal, like we’re all just going through the motions.

I spot Vince at the back of the room, standing alone, staring at a picture of him and Teddy from years ago. He’s holding his newborn daughter, the look of pride unmistakable on his face. His jaw is tight, his eyes red-rimmed but dry. “Doesn’t feel real, does it?” he mutters as I walk up, his voice rough from holding it all in.

“No,” I manage, my throat tight. “It doesn’t.”

Malcolm joins us, a beer clutched in his hand that he hasn’t even touched. “This sucks,” he mutters flatly, staring at the floor. “Feels like we’re all pretending to be okay, but none of us are.”

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