27. Chapter 27
Julian
After the cheerful chaos of the animal shelter, with its barking dogs and chattering children, the stillness in my home makes my chest ache with loss.
I spent the entire day with my children and wife, and returning here alone is a painful reminder that I lost the best things that ever happened to me.
I stand motionless for a moment, breathing in air that smells faintly of the cleaning service that comes three times weekly.
No trace of cooking or children or life, just the antiseptic scent of polished surfaces.
I glance down and notice a single cat hair clinging to my pant leg that somehow survived the careful brushing I gave myself before leaving the shelter.
Without thinking, I pluck it off, then hesitate before dropping it into the decorative crystal bowl that sits on the entry table.
Apparently, I’m sentimental now, and soon will become obsessed with filling this bowl with cat hairs from my family’s shelter.
Since Elowen left, I’ve tried cooking here and there, and so far, I have found it calming. There’s something about following a recipe and getting to experience the result through my taste buds that I enjoy.
In the pantry, I find several varieties of pasta, organized by type in clear containers with printed labels. Elowen had done it for me, even though I hadn’t cooked back then. She’d only done it for me in case I happened to open the pantry. I grab a container of spaghetti and set it on the counter.
My phone provides a simple pasta recipe that promises to be “quick and easy” and “perfect for beginners.” I read through the instructions twice. Onion, garlic, tomatoes, olive oil, Alfredo sauce, salt, pepper, cheese. I can manage this.
It takes several attempts as I want to perfect the dish as much as possible, but by nine-thirty, it’s ready. I plate my creation and carry it to the kitchen island.
How is it possible that I’m forty-two years old and just now learning how challenging it is to prepare a simple meal? How many other basic life skills have I outsourced? Most of them, now that I think about it.
While eating, I think about Leo at the shelter today, confidently explaining to other children how to approach shy cats. My nine-year-old son has mastered a skill that brings comfort to frightened animals. Meanwhile, his father can’t cook spaghetti without consulting his phone.
As hard as I am on myself right now, at least I’m learning something new. The kids haven’t spent the night yet, but I bet cooking would be a fun activity to do together. If I’m lucky, maybe Elowen will even stay.
Once I finish the pasta, I clean my plate and settle down for the night, drinking a glass of whiskey in the kitchen. My grandfather used to do the same thing every night, and I guess it stuck, though I don’t do it nightly.
Today at the shelter, I saw Elowen as she truly is. She’s free and herself. No longer an accessory to Julian Plaza’s success, she’s vibrant. For years, I stilted her and never actually processed how much so. But it’s obvious that she outshines me.
I loved the way she knelt beside Leo to help him approach a frightened cat, her voice gentle but not condescending.
I loved how she let Meredith take charge of the toy display, encouraging her leadership rather than correcting her haphazard organization.
I loved watching her move through that space, taking control and being so confident doing it her way.
Most surprising of all, I felt proud of her.
Genuinely proud. I’m proud of the type of business she’s building, of the respect she’s earned, of the person she’s becoming without me, and I’m proud of her surviving me.
Rather than feel threatened by her independence, I’m in awe.
I pour another finger of whiskey but don’t drink it immediately. Instead, I hold the glass up to the light, watching how the amber liquid catches and transforms it.
“To Elowen,” I say aloud to the empty kitchen. “May she never again dim her light for anyone, especially not for me.”
I drink to that promise, letting the whiskey warm me from the inside. All this time, I should have been protecting who she is.