Page 33 of Every Promise Broken

Pulling into the driveway of my dad’s house, I can’t help but wish that I could feel the same way about having to see him as I feel around getting to see her. Maybe visiting him would be easier. My chest feels tight, and my palms are sweaty as I walk along the path that leads to the front door. Paul, my father’s live-in nurse, is on the front porch, sitting in his favorite rocking chair.

“Whit, it’s so nice to see you,” he says warmly with a smile. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been good, just working a lot.” I prop my shoulder against the wooden beam, crossing my arms over my chest. “How are you?”

“Doing well,” he replies. “Thanks for asking.”

Paul has been working with my dad for about three years now. In addition to his kidney issues, he’s also diabetic. It’s something he had no troubles managing when my mother was alive, but once she died, it’s like he lost his will to live. He stopped taking care of himself, stopped eating right. There were many emergency room visits before I finally decided hiring somebody to live with him and make sure he took care of himself would be a good, albeit expensive, idea.

“How’s he been?” I tip my chin toward the house, shoving my hands into the pockets of my scrub pants.

“In good spirits. We’ve been taking Callie down to the track twice a day to walk on the days it doesn’t rain, and I think the fresh air is helping him.”

Callie is my dad’s thirteen-year-old black lab.

“Good, glad to hear that.”

“He’s been looking forward to you coming over all day.” Paul grins up at me, and more guilt hits me. “If you want to go on in, he should be in the den watching the game.”

“Big surprise there.” I chuckle. Dad’s always been a major football fan, specifically Copper Lake University football. Something I couldn’t care any less about.

“You staying for dinner?” he asks before I reach the front door. “I’m about to get started on it, but it’s no trouble to make enough for you too. Turkey stuffed bell peppers.”

I force a smile in his direction. “Sure. Thanks, Paul.”

The house smells clinical as I step inside and take off my shoes. It’s quiet, but I can hear the faint buzzing from the TV as I pad across the floor toward the den. My father looks up as I walk in, a smile spreading on his face.

“Hey, Dad.” Giving him an awkward, stiff wave, I sit on the opposite side of the couch as him.

“Hey, son. How you been?”

“Not too bad. How about yourself?”

Turning the volume down, he shifts his body slightly to face me more. “Doing pretty good. Staying as active as I can.”

I nod. “Yeah, Paul told me you guys have been taking Callie to the track. Bet she’s loving that.”

He chuckles. “She certainly has.”

This awkward small talk is painful to sit through, but it’s how things always are between my dad and me. It’s like neither of us knows what to say to the other, nor do we know how to act around each other. It’s so forced, which makes it unbearable. I don’t do small talk very well, especially with somebody like my father.

It’s not often that he asks me about my life outside of the clinic, and sometimes, I find myself wishing I could share more. Bond with him, even. He doesn’t even know Reggie and I broke up, but it feels pointless to bring it up because he never asksabout our relationship. In the few years we were together, they only met twice.

Deep down, there’s a part of me that feels like my father and I are more alike than I allow myself to believe. The couple of years leading up to my mom’s death, her drinking got really bad. She was what they’d call a “functional alcoholic,” at least to the outside world. She was a mess at home, and she was a mean drunk, at least to my father. She would take her every frustration out on him, call him names, pick him apart, and because he loved her more than life itself, he took it. He took the emotional beating, and never said anything, not even during her final days. He loved her through it all, and never once talked about leaving. I think there’s a part of me who feels like a failure because I couldn’t love my husband through his downfall the way my father could my mother.

But even thinking that makes me feel ashamed. I left because I had to. It ended with Conrad because he wouldn’t open up to me, and I needed more. And I’m not selfish for that. And frankly, I love my mom, but my dad should’ve done the same. Nobody deserves to be someone’s punching bag, even if you love them.Especiallyif you love them.

We watch the game together for a while, which is a whole lot of fun for me, talking here and there about the clinic and doctor’s visits he’s had recently before Paul puts us both out of our misery and lets us know dinner is done.

After we finish eating, I offer to do the dishes so Paul doesn’t have to. Mostly because I’m not ready to gohomeyet, but I’m also not prepared to suffer through any more small talk. Coming here was a mistake, but I feel terrible even thinking that. What kind of person dreads having to see their parent this much? Not for the first time, I find myself wishing we had more in common. I find myself wishing we had a closer relationship.

I think about my friends and the relationships they have with their parents. Sure, not all of them are perfect, but for the most part, a good majority of my friends have great relationships with their dads. Why can’t I? Why do we have to be so different? Growing up, while my dad enjoyed sports and fishing andnormalmale hobbies—his words, not mine—I found the most joy out of reading or researching, and I still do. Our career paths are about as aligned as our interests go. The one thing we had in common when I was younger was building model airplanes, but it’s something we haven’t shared in a long time.

I dry my hands on the dish towel before folding it and setting it on the counter. Finding my dad back in the den, I stand in the doorway with my hands in my pockets. “Think I’m going to take off,” I murmur. “I’ve got an early morning.”

“Okay, son.” He smiles up at me. “Thanks for coming over. It was nice to see you.”

“Yeah, you too, Dad.”

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