Chapter 30 #2
Oakland covered her mouth. “You tried to summon a raccoon?”
“I was luring it away. It was already inside.”
“You held the door open for it like a polite dinner guest,” Kiley wheezed. “And it ran inside.”
Their mother sighed. “And then it got into the pantry and ripped open a bag of marshmallows.”
Oakland blinked. “How did you get it out?”
Elena didn’t even look up. “I took the broom away from your father and handled it.”
“Handled it how?”
“I spoke to it.”
“She negotiated with it,” Kiley said. “And unlike Dad, the raccoon actually listened.”
Their father muttered something under his breath about disrespect from his own blood, but he was smiling.
The next story was even worse.
“Remember when Oakland almost killed us learning to drive?” Kiley asked, grinning.
Their father let out a long, suffering sigh. “I have never prayed harder in my life.”
Oakland scoffed. “I was avoiding a squirrel!”
“You swerved like it had a knife, Oakland. We ended up in a ditch.”
Elena shook her head. “And then I had to tow you out because your father refused to call a tow truck.”
Their father groaned, rubbing his face. “Thank god for autonomous vehicles. It’s the only reason Oakland isn’t a daily threat to public safety.”
Oakland smirked. “I’m a great driver.”
It felt normal and familiar, like a family sitting together after dinner, teasing their dad over something ridiculous.
These moments weren’t much, but they were theirs. And for now, that was enough.
* * *
The day her father was discharged, the hospital staff gathered in the hallway, forming a loose semicircle around the nurses’ station. It was a small, makeshift celebration—nothing elaborate, just a few claps, some well-wishes, and a nurse holding up a tiny bell for him to ring.
He looked tired and thinner than before, but he forced a smile as he pressed the handle down, the soft chime breaking through the hospital's hum.
“Well done, Bishop Pratt,” one of the nurses said warmly, her smile gentle but genuine.
Oakland recognized her earlier that week—she was a church member. She checked in on him more than most, lingering a little longer during rounds to ensure he had everything he needed.
A small kindness. The kind that made all the difference.
Kiley and Elena left to prepare the house for his arrival home. Oakland stayed behind, ensuring everything was in order. She watched as the discharge nurse went through paperwork, checked his prescriptions, and rattled off aftercare instructions like it was just another day.
It felt like a moment that should have been heavier. But it wasn’t.
She helped load him into the passenger seat of his car while an aide packed up his overnight bag in the back. The hospital doors slid closed behind them, a gust of fresh air cutting through the antiseptic scent that had clung to them for the last week.
He settled into the seat as if he could finally breathe now that he was outside of those walls.
Oakland slid into the driver’s seat, adjusting it to accommodate the height difference. The motion felt foreign, almost wrong. She hadn’t driven in years. Autonomous vehicles were mere years away from completely erasing the need for manual driving, but her dad was old school.
The ride home was just them.
The roads were familiar, but something about the drive felt different. Like everything outside the car shifted in ways she couldn’t quite name. The sky was too bright, the landscape too sharp, too full of life for how heavy her chest felt.
Her father was quiet at first, watching the streets pass by. Then, as if no time passed, as if this was just another car ride, another conversation between them, he said:
“I have a plan to get you back in seminary.”
Oakland kept her eyes on the road, fingers flexing around the steering wheel.
“You’ve had your time away from it,” he continued. “But I think it would be good for you to return to the classroom. Teaching.”
Oakland swallowed hard. The words felt distant, muffled like they were coming through the water.
She thought of Christine. Of laughter over clinking beer glasses, of late-night conversations that felt too easy. She thought of how Christine looked at her—like she was perfect and whole and complete just as she was.
And then her attention turned to the present moment.
Her father. Sitting beside her. Alive. The life that almost ended.
How small time was.
The realization settled into her bones like a weight she couldn’t ignore anymore. She was done lying.
She gripped the wheel tighter, her knuckles whitening.
“I can’t,” she said, her voice steady.
He exhaled like he expected it. Like this was just her being difficult again. “Oakland.”
“No,” she said, firmer this time. “I can’t.”
A pause. The air in the car thickened.
She could feel him watching her now. “You can’t?”
She blinked hard, focusing on the road ahead, the horizon stretching into something unknown.
“I’m gay.”
The words were out, and the silence came fast, swallowing her whole.
The world outside stretched ahead, familiar but suddenly foreign. Everything was the same: the road, the trees lining it, the curve that would take them home. And yet, nothing was.
“I… I’ve known for a long time,” she forced out, her voice small, cracking under the weight of it all. “I tried to ignore it. I prayed. I begged. I did everything I was supposed to do.”
Still, nothing.
She blinked hard, her vision swimming, the road warping before her. She scrubbed at her face with the back of her sleeve, frantic, desperate to see, to keep control. But the tears wouldn’t stop.
“I can’t stay in the church anymore,” she whispered. “I can’t keep lying. I can’t?—”
The words broke off, choked into silence.
And still, he said nothing.
She risked a glance, just for a second, just long enough to see his hands still folded in his lap, his jaw tight, his gaze locked on the horizon like if he just ignored her, she might disappear.
A fresh sob surged up, but she swallowed it down, pressing her teeth into her bottom lip, focusing on the road that was barely holding its shape in front of her.
The house was only a few minutes away now.
A few minutes.
Somehow, she knew—these were the last minutes of her old life.
Her hands trembled on the wheel as memories slammed into her, unbidden, relentless, gutting her from the inside out.
She saw herself at five years old, sitting on his shoulders during the Fourth of July parade, laughing as he pointed out the floats, his voice warm, safe.
She saw him in the church pew beside her, singing hymns with his eyes closed, hand resting on top of hers, a silent reassurance.
She saw him at her high school graduation, standing with his arms crossed but grinning with pride, telling her she could be anything she wanted.
Except this.
Never this.
And then?—
The handcart trek.
She almost forgot about that.
It was more than a decade ago—one of those church reenactments meant to honor the early pioneers.
They spent three days in the middle of nowhere, dressed in scratchy period-accurate clothes, pulling a wooden handcart through the dust and the heat, pretending to be struggling settlers when, in reality, they were just miserable teenagers forced to go.
Her father was a volunteer leader, walking beside her in a sun-bleached button-up and a wide-brimmed hat that made him look ridiculous. It was the only time they were completely in sync about a church function.
“This is insufferable,” he muttered under his breath, glancing around to make sure no one else could hear.
She burst into laughter, barely able to keep the handcart moving. “Dad, you’re supposed to be setting an example.”
“I’m setting an example of honesty,” he said, deadpan. Then, in a low, conspiratorial whisper: “If I have to eat one more boiled potato, I’m defecting.”
They laughed about it for years afterward: how melodramatic the whole thing had been, how the leaders acted like they were on the brink of starvation while secretly sneaking granola bars behind the tents.
It became their joke.
A rare thing. Something that belonged only to them. A scrap of shared laughter in a relationship that didn’t have many.
She thought of it now, uninvited, as she sat beside him. And suddenly, it hit her, how much she really loved her dad, despite everything. Despite the arguments, the distance, and the years of trying not to care.
She would miss him.
The thought hollowed her out. Left her raw and reeling. Like grief had already started, even though he was still here, barely.
She felt sick. Small. Helpless. It was like the world was shifting under her feet, and no amount of willpower could keep it still.
Her fingers tightened around the wheel, her whole body trembling, and the road ahead splitting and warping. She sniffed hard, blinking furiously, wiping her face with quick, frantic movements, trying to keep herself steady and focus on the last stretch of road before home.
“Dad,” she whispered one last time. One last plea. “Please.”
His hands tightened just slightly in his lap. He said nothing.
The driveway came into view.
Seconds left.
The last seconds of a life she spent years trying to preserve.
And then the car rolled to a stop.
She sat there, hands still clutching the wheel, chest rising and falling too fast, like maybe if she just stayed here and didn’t move, she could freeze time. Undo it. Take it back.
But he was already reaching for the door.
Already leaving.
And as he stepped out without a word, without a glance, without a single hesitation, she knew.
She lost him.
?