Even at eleven I could sense the difference. He and Liz and Brady and I had spent the afternoon with my grandparents at the farm. Then that night my dad took me to stay with the three of them at their hotel in Philadelphia, where he finally said those words.
Brady was almost two, and he was tired and cranky from the long day. Liz was busy entertaining him and didn’t say much, though I knew she was listening to every word. She kept glancing at me, her eyes filled with an anxiousness that angered me. After Dad asked his question, he sat there, looking from me to her, and then he did something that sealed my decision. He reached for Liz and patted her shoulder. Brady let out a little wail and they both gently hushed him before lifting their gaze back to me and the question that hung in the air between us.
I told them I would stay with my grandparents.
Now I sat with Rachel, all these years later, telling myself I’d never regretted that decision, even as her words pounded inside my head like a drum. You’re still that same six-year-old little boy who, more than anything, just wants his father to want him.
How on earth was I to respond to that? I couldn’t. Instead, I excused myself and then simply rose and left, moving outside and around the corner of the barn to where it was quiet and empty and I could breathe. From there I could see the horses out in the field, lazily munching grass until they would be rounded up and reattached to the buggies they had brought here in the first place. My own horse seemed to sense my presence, and he sauntered in my direction. When he reached the fence, I walked over to greet him, absently patting his broad, muscular neck.
“I always miss your mother so much on special days like this one,” a woman’s voice said.
Startled, I turned to see my aunt Sarah, the mother of the bride, standing just a few feet behind me. I instantly thought she’d overheard what Rachel and I had been talking about and had come out here to see if I was okay. But when she stepped to the fence beside me and began cooing to my horse as well, I saw the sadness in her eyes, and I realized that she’d come out here for herself. Sarah didn’t often mention my mother, her only sister. Those rare times she did, it was only with me.
“I can’t imagine how hard it must be.” I returned my gaze to the animal in front of us.
“Ya. It still hurts, even after all these years. I don’t think most people know how much.”
I didn’t reply. I didn’t need to. We’d always had this bond, this loss, even though Sarah wasn’t one to bring it up often.
“She ran off the night before my birthday, did I ever tell you that?”
My eyes widened. “No.”
“It was my twentieth birthday. We were supposed to have a family party, of course. But she and I also had plans for a fun time later that night, off on our own with Jonah and some of our other friends. We were all still on our rumspringa, and she and I were sort of known as the two sisters who were always raising a ruckus.”
I smiled. “Somehow, I can’t picture you as the ruckus-raising type.”
Now it was her turn to smile. “Ya, well, you’re probably right about that. Sadie was far more outgoing than I, far more energetic and alive. After she left, I refused to celebrate my birthday that year—at home or with my friends. I just stayed in my room and cried all night. At the time, I wondered if I would ever be happy again. She was my best friend. And she left me without even telling me why.”
There was nothing I could say to that, so finally I just reached out, took her hand in mine, and gave it a squeeze. She squeezed back, her grip firm.
“Of course, time and forgiveness heal all wounds. And marrying Jonah two years later brought joy back to my life, but I have never been able to get over the fact that your mother isn’t here, sharing special days like this with me. I had always imagined she would.”
She released my hand to dab at her eyes, which had filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Tyler. Here you are enjoying Anna and Tobias’s special day, and I come along and start blubbering like an old fool.”
I shook my head, wishing I had more comfort to offer her. All I could do was give her a hug and tell her what I always told myself, that at least we had our memories.
When I returned to the barn and my place at the table, Rachel seemed to sense she had crossed a line. Except for reaching over to give my hand a loving squeeze, she let me alone for a while, remaining silent and simply watching the others around the table. When she finally spoke, it was to point out the various treats, saying who made what, and how. The earlier topic was dropped and all serious conversation avoided, though I sensed we would both spend the rest of the time at the wedding pondering our exchange.