Page 75 of Where We Call Home

I missed my dad.

Since finding out I was pregnant, I hadn’t let myself dwell on his absence. But now, it hit me like a ton of bricks. The grief was overwhelming, an ache so deep it felt like I’d run straight into a wall.

My body sank into the couch as the tears came.

There was no stopping them. The dam broke, and the flood poured out in relentless waves.

I missed him so much.

He should be here. He was supposed to be here—to see me through this, to share in the joy and challenges.

Grief is a complex thing. It’s an emptiness, a void that refuses to be filled. It’s heavy, persistent, always lingering in the background no matter how hard you try to move forward. And in moments like these, when life changes in monumental ways, it becomes unbearable.

The sound of the front door opening barely registered through my sobs. Boots thudded softly on the floor until they stopped beside me.

“Theo, Honey,” Rhodes said gently, sitting down next to me.

He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, tucking me into his side. In that moment, his presence was grounding, a refuge in the chaos of my emotions.

“I miss him,” I choked out.

“I know,” Rhodes said, his hand moving in slow, comforting circles on my back.

“He should be here. I needed him. I still need him.”

“Let it out,” he murmured.

And I did. Gasping, sobbing, the words spilling out between broken breaths. The world blurred into the background, but Rhodes stayed steady, his warmth and care surrounding me.

“He would’ve loved being a grandfather,” I managed through the tears. “That’s what hurts the most. I keep picturing what his face would look like when he’d see her for the first time—the light in his eyes. She’d probably have a dozen Oklahoma State onesies and ridiculous Pistol Pete hats.”

Rhodes chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest.

“Tell me more about him,” he encouraged, his voice low and steady. “What was his name?”

I smiled faintly, even through the tears. “Frank. He always hated his name.” I chucked at the thought. “He was the best dad a girl could ask for.”

I closed my eyes and let the memories flow—riding bikes in the neighborhood at night, late grocery runs for ice cream, the way he made everything feel okay. He was my first protector, the first man to show me my worth.

“What was your favorite thing about him?” Rhodes asked, his hand brushing gently over my hair.

“When I was ten, I would’ve said his version of the chicken dance,” I said with a watery laugh.

The memory played in my mind, his arms flailing wildly in the most ridiculous, endearing way.

“But now? It’s how he made me feel. He was home. Nothing else has ever compared to that.”

Rhodes didn’t say much, letting the silence settle around us. He was a quiet anchor in the storm, grounding me without judgment.

“Why don’t you head to bed? I’ll bring you something to eat,” he offered, placing a soft kiss on my head.

“I’d like that,” I said, untangling myself from his embrace.

“And maybe later, you can tell me more about him. Show me pictures too, if you’re up to it.”

I nodded. It had been too long since I’d let myself look at the photos, the memories too painful to face. However, I was ready to stop avoiding them.

It was time to honor my feelings, to allow myself grace. That was a promise I intended to keep.

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