Epilogue
Jimmy Two Years Later
The morning sunlight spilled through the kitchen window like liquid honey, turning the steam rising from our coffee cups into gold.
Lucien sat across from me at the little bistro table we’d picked up at a yard sale our first summer together—its paint still chipped, still perfect.
One lock of his mussed hair fell over his forehead as he read the news on his tablet, and he was half-dressed in a faded Temple T-shirt that had survived a hundred washes.
Our breakfast plates sat between us—scrambled eggs, toast, and the kind of peace I never thought I’d earn. I’d just taken a sip of coffee when my phone buzzed on the table. I reached for it, thumb hovering over the screen. Sheila Singh .
I smiled instinctively. “It’s Sheila,” I said, and Lucien looked up, eyebrows raised.
“Sheila of the Cracker Barrel awakening?” he teased.
“The very one.” I grinned and opened the message.
The grin slipped almost immediately.
“What is it?” Lucien asked, setting down his tablet.
I stared at the screen, reading the message twice to be sure I wasn’t imagining it.
Hey Jimmy. I didn’t know if you’d want to know, but your dad had a heart attack yesterday. He’s at WakeMed in Raleigh. Stable, but bad enough they had to cancel his show. I thought you should hear it from me. Take care.
My throat went dry. I set the phone down with trembling fingers.
Lucien’s voice softened. “Jimmy?”
I rubbed the back of my neck, staring at the faint ring my coffee cup had left on the table. “Daddy’s in the hospital. Sheila says it happened yesterday.”
Lucien frowned. “A heart attack?”
I nodded. “He was filming that show of his. Guess he got a real taste of divine judgment.” I meant it as a joke, but it came out cracked and brittle.
Silence settled between us, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the lazy tick of the wall clock.
Lucien leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Do you want to go see him?”
The question hit like a punch. For two years, I hadn’t said my father’s name out loud. My whole body remembered what fear felt like—tight throat, cold palms, breath that never went deep enough. I swallowed.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “He hasn’t spoken to me since I left. Not a word. It’s like I stopped existing.”
Lucien reached across the table and covered my hand with his.
I looked around our kitchen—at the art déco prints on the walls, the clutter of mismatched mugs, the bright basil plant Lucien kept forgetting to water. Everything about this space screamed life. It was the opposite of the house I grew up in—where silence was holy and love was conditional.
“I swore I’d never go back,” I murmured.
Lucien’s smile was gentle. “Then don’t think of it as going back. Think of it as showing up—for yourself.”
I stared at him for a long time, the way you do when you realize someone’s just said something that’ll echo in your head for years. Then I nodded.
“Okay,” I breathed. “Let’s go see him.”
* * *
The drive to Raleigh was quieter than any sermon I’d ever sat through.
Lucien drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the console near mine. I couldn’t bring myself to reach for it. My fingers just twitched occasionally, like they were remembering a habit they hadn’t relearned yet.
The highway unspooled ahead of us, gray and endless, the clouds hanging low and heavy. We passed through the same towns I’d known as a kid — places where the radio always played gospel and the billboards reminded you that God was watching.
The last time I’d been in a hospital, I was seventeen. I’d sat in a waiting room that smelled like bleach and sadness, watching my mother’s life fade behind closed doors while Daddy paced in front of her room. He’d called it “God’s will.” I’d called it hell.
Lucien must’ve felt the tension rolling off me because he said quietly, “We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.”
“Yes, I need to do this,” I said, though my voice came out rough. “I’ve been scared of Daddy my whole life. I just… I want to see what’s left.”
Lucien nodded, his eyes on the road. “Then we’ll see.”
By the time we reached WakeMed, my stomach was in knots. The building loomed like a slab of white stone under a dull sky, the red EMERGENCY sign flashing faintly through the drizzle. I stared at it and tried not to breathe too shallowly.
The lobby doors whooshed open as we stepped inside. The smell hit me first — antiseptic and metal, sharp enough to make me flinch. My palms went slick.
“Breathe,” Lucien murmured beside me, sliding a reassuring hand to the small of my back.
“I’m fine,” I lied, though my pulse was galloping. Hospitals made me feel like a teenager again — powerless, waiting for bad news from men who smiled while they broke you.
The elevator ride felt endless, the hum of machinery and faint chatter from nurses turning into a chorus of ghosts. When the doors finally opened onto the cardiac ward, I hesitated. The hallway stretched out sterile and quiet, the floors polished enough to reflect the overhead lights like halos.
Room 214. Sheila had texted me the number.
Lucien reached the door first, pausing with his hand on the knob. “You sure?” he asked.
No, I wasn’t. But I nodded anyway.
The room was dim, lit mostly by the muted glow of monitors and the half-drawn blinds filtering late afternoon light.
My father lay in the bed, smaller than I remembered, his skin pale and his once-booming voice reduced to the faint rasp of his breathing.
The oxygen tube framed his face, and his hand twitched against the blanket as if even when unconscious, he was still restless.
I froze. All the anger I’d rehearsed on the drive down evaporated. All that was left was this heavy, hollow ache — the kind you feel when you realize the monster from your childhood was just a man all along.
Lucien stayed by the door, and I stepped closer to the bed.
“Hey, Daddy,” I whispered. My voice barely made it past my throat.
He didn’t stir. The steady beep of the heart monitor filled the silence. I swallowed, forcing the words out. “You look… tired.”
My hand shook a little as I reached for the rail. I didn’t touch him — just needed to anchor myself to something that didn’t move.
“I heard about your show,” I mumbled. “Still preaching obedience, huh?” A bitter smile ghosted across my face. “Guess your own heart got tired of listening.”
Lucien gave me a quiet glance that said, go easy on him.
“I didn’t come here to be cruel,” I murmured. “I came because—because I don’t want to carry this anymore.”
The air felt heavier the longer I stood there.
My chest tightened, the faint antiseptic smell mixing with something faintly floral — the same cheap air freshener they used in my mother’s hospice room.
The memories hit hard. I remembered the soft click of heels in hallways, and the quiet prayers I’d whispered that God had ignored.
I drew a shaky breath. “You broke me down to mold me into your image, Daddy. You made me believe love was punishment.”
Lucien’s reflection glimmered faintly in the window glass, his expression unreadable but full of quiet strength. That steadiness helped me find my voice again.
“I forgive you,” I said finally. The words felt like glass leaving my throat. “Not because you deserve it. But because I need to be free.”
Lucien took a slow step forward, stopping beside me. I reached back and found his hand without looking. His fingers laced through mine, warm, grounding.
“And this,” I said, turning slightly toward the bed, “is my husband. Lucien Perez. You remember him, right? The so-called devil worshipper you sent me to spy on?”
A humorless laugh slipped out. “Turns out you were half right. He’s got a hell of a way of showing love.”
Lucien huffed a quiet chuckle.
“But he saved me,” I went on. “He showed me what real grace looks like. What it feels like to be seen and not judged.”
For a long, suspended moment, the only sound was the steady beep of the monitor. I started to step back — and then Daddy’s eyelids flickered.
“Lucien,” I whispered, frozen.
My father’s eyes opened. They were pale, almost watery, and for a split second, there was recognition there — of me, of him, of everything between us.
He blinked slowly, lips moving. It took effort, like the words were made of stone.
“Get out,” he rasped.
The syllables were weak but sharp enough to cut air.
I stared at him, my pulse roaring in my ears. I thought I’d feel anger, or grief, or vindication. But what I felt was… nothing. Just a hollow quiet, like the wind after a storm.
Lucien squeezed my hand. “Come on,” he whispered.
We left without another word.
Outside, the air smelled like rain and cut grass — alive. I leaned against the hood of our car, the metal cool under my palms, and let the tears come. They fell fast but easily.
Lucien stood close, his arm wrapping around my shoulders. “Hey,” he murmured, his voice low and steady. “You did what you needed to do.”
I nodded, wiping my face. “He’ll never change.”
“No,” Lucien said gently. “But you did.”
I let out a shaky breath, managing a small smile. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you so much, Lucien.”
Lucien turned toward me, eyes soft. “And you’re the bravest man I’ve ever met, Jimmy. I love you, too.”
He kissed my forehead, lingering just long enough for the world to fall quiet again.
When we got into the car, I looked up through the windshield. The sky had cleared — that perfect, washed blue that only comes after rain. A crow cut across it, black and certain, flying toward the sun.
For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel guilty for leaving.
I felt free.
* * *
I hope you enjoyed Jimmy and Lucien’s story as much as I loved writing it.