When the Heart Falls

I pull my cloth napkin off my lap and toss it to the table by my plate. "I'd rather not."

Unwilling, or maybe unable, to let it go, my dad continues to probe. “Come on Cade, there has to be something you're grateful for. Just say grace.”

Mom, ever the peacekeeper, sides with Dad. “Go on honey, just say grace.”

Stevie’s eyes flicker back and forth, the side of his face that still works drooping into a frown.

I reach for his hand and my mother’s, and we form a lopsided circle around the table. As I open my mouth to speak, the grandfather clock in the living room chimes seven times, and we all sit through it, waiting for the silence to resume. At the last chime, I clear my throat and begin. “Thank you, God, for the wonderful food before us. Thank you for my dear brother and mother. And thank you for my father, who supports me in everything.”

I glance up at him and see him grimace at my words. Filling my voice with false sincerity, I continue. “Thank you for my father, who has always told me to follow my dreams. Thank you for my father, who offered to pay for my tuition, who supports my career choice, and who’s never made fun of me for doing what I love. Thank you—“

Dad's voice barks out in anger. “That's enough, that—“

I shout over him, raising my voice to be heard for once in my life. “Thank you for my father, who gave me a pat on the back when I was accepted into one of the best universities in the world, who said, ‘Good job, Son. I’m proud of you. I'm proud of you!’”

I stop yelling, grief swelling up inside of me and breaking my words in half. “I’m proud of you.”

As the pain chokes me, my father’s face tightens in fury. “Cade, you will apologize right now and—“

Without an appetite, I stand and walk out of the house, silent and tired of fighting the same losing battle over and over.



The sun is setting, my favorite time of the day despite the melancholy it fills me with, or maybe because of it. I haven’t been back into the house, and my dad hasn’t come out to look for me, not that I expected him to. After fixing a shoe on Biscuit and brushing her down, I feed her apples from my hand and smile as her soft horse lips push against my skin. Rubbing her neck, I lean my head against hers. “Why can’t he just listen, for once? Why can’t he at least try to see things from my perspective?”

“Hey!”

I turn and find Leslie strolling up to the barn, her shorts so short that the inside pockets poke out from underneath. She pulls herself up the gate and swings her legs while sucking on a lollipop. “Rich boy still has to do the grunt work?”

Biscuit finishes the last apple, and I wipe my hand on my jeans and let her out to wander the field. “I prefer to take care of my horse myself. Most cowboys do. Plus, Dad likes to keep the business with family.”

She licks lasciviously at her candy. “What do you like?”

I join Leslie by the gate, tempted to speak but unsure of how much truth I want to reveal to a girl I hardly know. “I like architecture.”

“So, you like buildings?”

“Yeah. Buildings. Sounds lame, right?”

She shakes her head, flipping her long braid over her tan and exposed shoulder. “No. Not really. Remember, you’re talking to the girl who wants to be a Disney Princess.”

A smile creeps over my face as we watch the sun set together.

I feel her eyes turn toward me, lollipop forgotten. “You don't belong here, you know.”

I look at her and wonder if she sees more of me than my parents do. “What do you mean?”

Her slim arm flings forward in a wide, sweeping gesture. “You're always looking out at the horizon, dreaming of some far off place. Where you dreaming of?”

“The Eiffel Tower. The Pyramids. The Pantheon. I don't know. Someplace where a man dared to build something his father couldn’t even imagine.”

Leslie nods as if it all makes perfect sense. “That's where you belong.”

“Paris?”

“The future,” she says, offering me her lollipop. “The future’s built by dreamers like you.”



The world is still covered in the shadows of night when I wake and get ready for my trip. Even the rooster is still deep in slumber.

My bags have been packed for weeks, but I hadn't made the decision to actually leave until my talk with Leslie. Funny how someone can cross into your life, like a human intersection, and make such profound observations about you.

I shuffle around in the dark, stacking my luggage by the front door as I wait for the airport shuttle to arrive. I sneak into Stevie's bedroom and kiss his smooth forehead. “I’m going to miss you, little bro. Take care of Mom for me.” As an afterthought I add, “And Dad.”