Page 73 of Salvation
“I never meant to make you feel ashamed.”
“But I did, and sometimes I wonder if you do, too.” The statement is raw and honest, something I’ve never been capable of when talking to my dad.
His graying brows dip together, and I hold my breath, waiting for the disappointment to hit when he shuts down like he always does. But to my surprise, he doesn’t.
“You’re right, son. I do.”
His confession rocks into me, splitting my chest with a new kind of sadness because it shouldn’t be this way. There shouldn’t be such a stigma for men’s mental health, but there is. And there are probably a hundred other men out there, suppressing all the things I’ve suffered alone because they are ashamed. But it can change with us. It doesn’t have to stay that way for our family.
“I’m starting therapy, Dad. Maybe you should, too.”
An internal battle flickers through my dad’s eyes—one I know well because I’ve fought it myself. “I’ll think about it.”
It’s not exactly a yes, but it’s not a no either. And that’s a start.
Chapter 32
Campbell
Leaving my dad’s office, I follow the sound of banging pots and pans to the kitchen. Mom is standing at the sink, muttering to herself as she dries and puts away her dishes. From where I’m standing, I can’t hear what she’s saying, but if I were to guess, I’d say it has something to do with the twins, judging from the deep crease between her brows.
With a glance around the room, I search for the two troublemakers, but it is quiet, which probably means they are planning their next bout of trouble. That seems like a later problem, though, because if my dad’s office was the place for discipline growing up, my mom’s kitchen was the place for comfort. Fond memories of growing up in here always slam into me every time I step through the arched doorway. The smell of the chocolate chip cookies she bakes every day because they are my dad’s favorite. The rainbows that dance off her antique glassware sitting in the china cabinet from the sun streaming in through the patio doors in the morning. The view of Ivy’s house through those same doors. The sound of her softly humming as she stands over the stove, filling each meal with love. Many times she sat me down at the bar and cooked a meal that felt like it was healing my soul, at least until there were too many broken pieces for it to heal.
Stepping further into the room, I clear my throat, and my mom jumps, gasping and clutching at the pearls around her neck.
“Campbell, you scared me to death,” she scolds, swatting the drying towel in my direction as I walk by. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
Chuckling, I plop a kiss on her cheek and take the drying towel from her hands, finishing the dishes as I talk. “I wasn’t sneaking, Mom. You just couldn’t hear me over your cussing.”
“Oh, hush,” she says, swatting me again as her cheeks turn red. “I was not cussing.”
“Sure you weren’t.” I stretch out the words like I don’t believe her and give her a teasing grin. Reaching for a glass, I ask, “Where did the twin tornadoes go?”
An exhausted sigh rushes past her lips, and she leans against the counter, running her fingers through her graying hair. “I sent them outside. Surely they can’t cause too much trouble out there.”
I stop drying the cup in my hand, giving her a look that questions whether she believes that, and she sighs again, shaking her head.
“Fine,” she says, giving me a pointed look for calling her out, “at least the destruction won’t be in my kitchen.”
Throwing my head back, I laugh, a deep rumble from my chest that warms my blood and leaves me smiling. The whole world could fall apart, and my mom would be just fine as long as her kitchen was still standing. I think she might love this place more than her own kids.
When I glance over at her to tell her just that, the words dry up in my throat because she’s staring at me with tears shining in her eyes.
“What?” I ask, my brows furrowing.
Her nose flares as she fights back her tears, swallowing hard against them. “I hadn’t realized how long it’s been since I heard you laugh like that.”
“Like what, Mom?”
“Like you’re happy.” Her voice sounds sad—like she’s remembering all the other times I’ve laughed over the years, and she’s just now realizing they were different.
I take my time drying the next glass, considering what she said before, finally saying, “I want to be.”
When she gives a non-committal hum, I shake my head and amend my statement. “Actually, I’m trying to be, and I think it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”
I don’t know why that confession leaves me feeling so raw, but I can’t look at my mom after. So I keep my gaze on the dish in my hand, drying it harder than necessary.
Her hand rests against my arm. “And the bravest.” I snap my head up, my skeptical gaze clashing with her understanding one. She smiles, lifting her hand to pat my cheek. “Few people know what makes them happy, baby, and even fewer are brave enough to chase it. So the way I see it—you’re not only lucky because you know, but you’re brave, too.”
