Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Maxinne
The afternoon is already hot enough that a thin layer of sweat sticks to the back of my neck, but I honestly don’t mind.
There are worse places to spend a summer day than in the garden surrounded by plants.
I’m patting the soil around a tomato plant I had to repot, because the stubborn thing refuses to thrive alongside the rest, when my phone buzzes in the front pocket of my overalls.
I tug off my gloves, brushing dirt from my palms before lifting the screen.
Zane
How’s your day been?
My heart is exploding with sunshine at the sight of his name, because I love that Zane thought of me. That, in the middle of his workday, he paused long enough to check in, and I’m not used to this from…well, anyone.
I tuck my lower lip under my teeth as I type a reply to him.
Me
It’s been productive, but now I’m tired. How has yours been?
The bubbles appear, and my stomach drops as if I’m at the top of a roller coaster—you know that suspended-breathless-second-before-the-fall feeling.
I set my phone face down on the ground like that’ll help, then pick it back up immediately because, apparently, I have no self-control left.
What is happening to me? I’ve been staring at the screen, waiting for a reply, like I’m seventeen again.
When the message finally comes through, I’m already smiling before I’ve even read it. That’s how I know I’m in trouble.
Zane
I’ve been so busy that I skipped lunch today.
Me
It’s not like you to skip out on a meal.
A second later, a photo comes through of Zane and Ashton, both drenched in sweat, faces smudged with drywall dust. I laugh softly before saving the photo to my phone and typing a reply.
Me
I’m cooking a pot roast and plan on making a blackberry pie out of the berries I picked today. Want to join us for dinner after work?
Zane
Dinner with you sounds perfect.
I bite my lip again, trying to contain the lightness stirring under my ribcage at his words.
Me
I’ll see you then.
By the time the sun begins its slow descent behind the ridge, my body hums with the kind of exhaustion that only comes from an honest day of work. My muscles might ache, but my mind is clearer after being on the homestead.
I finish hosing off my hands at the spigot near the garden, flicking dirt from beneath my fingernails before shutting the valve tight.
The beds are weeded, the tomatoes staked, and the squash leaves inspected for pests.
I hauled compost this morning, gathered eggs, and made sure Dad took his medication before we left for therapy.
Therapy days always take more out of him than he lets on—and more out of me than I’d like to admit too. Getting him there is half the battle because it seems like every public space becomes a challenge for him.
I understand that the brain injury he had years ago left him skittish and withdrawn from the world.
I’ve picked up the signs here and there during his visits to therapy.
If there are too many voices speaking around him, his gaze starts darting around and his fingers pluck at the hem of his shirt.
He becomes quieter than usual, his words coming out more halted and strained, and he shrinks inward while I try to fill the silence for both of us.
Some days, it’s hard not to grieve the man he used to be.
I know, in theory, that his severe social anxiety shaped his choices when I was a child. But knowing of it and witnessing it are two very different things. Seeing it up close has softened my heart. It’s given me deeper understanding, but what it hasn’t given me is answers.
Like, why did he have to leave us? Couldn’t we have figured out a solution together? I don’t think I’ll ever understand the reason why he never visited after the divorce. Or why he never called or checked in. Didn’t we mean anything to him?
The questions sit heavy in my chest as I carry my gloves toward the greenhouse.
I push the door open and step into the humid air.
It wraps around me instantly, smelling of damp soil and plant life.
Condensation beads along the glass panels overhead, reflecting the light in soft prisms. Rows of seedlings of basil, peppers, and heirloom tomatoes are stretched out before me.
Each one is carefully labeled in my handwriting.
Almost like this place has became my own personal sanctuary.
I move instinctively, checking moisture levels, pinching back spent growth, rotating trays so everything gets its fair share of sunlight. I’m bent over a tray of chamomile when I sense someone behind me.
Dad is standing inside the doorway, both hands tucked into his pockets. His posture is stiff, as if he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to be here, even though he built this greenhouse with his own hands, much like the one he built me as a child, and that memory stings a bit.
“Hey,” I say gently before inhaling a deep breath. “It smells amazing in here, doesn’t it?”
He nods once but says nothing. I wait patiently, like I always do, hoping that maybe he’ll strike a conversation with me today. Instead, he stays silent and begins working on some seedlings.
“Do you remember the greenhouse you built for me when I was little?” I continue, filling the space, “It looked just like this. Well, it was smaller and a little crooked.” A soft laugh escapes me at the memory.
“You taught me so much about plants back then. You’re the reason I’m so passionate about them today. ”
I wait for him to respond, offering up a silent prayer that he’ll open his heart to me.
A few months ago, I wouldn’t have thought to pray in a moment like this.
Now it feels as natural as breathing. I don’t expect God to hand me the right answer, but I’m slowly learning I don’t have to carry every burden on my own.
God, please help us to move forward.
Dad’s dark eyes flick to mine for half a second before dropping to the floor. I decide to press on, hoping that maybe something will get him to reach out to me.
“I remember you told me once that you liked plants because they didn’t mind if things weren’t perfect. They only wanted someone to show up and care for them. I’ve always related to them in that way.”
I swallow, the familiar ache pressing against my ribs, the grief of him walking away still raw and present.
“I used to think that the greenhouse was a magical place,” I add, my voice quieter now. “Like if I stayed in there long enough, nothing bad could touch me.”
But sadly, something bad did touch our family. I broke us the moment I forgot the rules and pushed Dad to his limits. If I could go back in time and change what I did, I would in a heartbeat.
He shifts his weight, throat working as if he wants to speak. I hold my breath as the moment stretches until the same silence settles again, seeming heavier this time.
I turn back to the plants, blinking hard at the tears suddenly making their appearance while pretending to be interested in a leaf that doesn’t need my attention. I hate that I still expect more from him. That part of me keeps waiting for him to reach across the distance like he used to.
When he leaves the greenhouse without a word, the pain sharpens. I hate that I don’t know how to bridge us together, and I’m starting to wonder if he even wants to.
After I finish the last of the outside chores, I head inside to prepare dinner.
The roast is nearly finished, filling the house with the rich, familiar scent of herbs and slow-cooked meat.
I move through the kitchen on autopilot, washing the blackberries, rolling out dough, sprinkling sugar and spice, while my father is sitting down with a book open in his lap.
The silence presses in on me as I work. Everything is heavy in this home, crawling under my skin, causing my thoughts to become louder and louder. I slide the pie into the oven and shut the door with more force than necessary. And then I finally snap.
I wipe my hands on a towel, the tightness in my chest growing with every silent second that passes, until I march into the living room.
“Why did you leave?” the words tumble out of me.
My father startles at my sudden outburst, and the book slips from his hands and lands face down on the floor. He looks scared, like a deer frozen in headlights.
“I—” he starts, his voice uneven. He swallows and tries again. “I—”
“You left us.” My voice trembles despite my effort to keep it steady. “You left Mom. You left Ashton. You left me. And you never came back. You never called. Do you have any idea what that did to us? To me?”
His hands tremble as they come together in his lap. He nods once, slowly, but it’s all he gives me.
“I couldn’t.” His words come slowly, each one taking effort. “Too loud. Too much.” He drags a hand over his face. “I…” His jaw tightens. “Didn’t know how.”
He exhales sharply, frustration flashing across his features, and I hate it for him. My throat burns as hot tears spill down my cheeks.
“You didn’t know how?” I repeat. “I was a kid who needed her dad. And you disappeared.”
His mouth opens then closes. His eyes shine with his own tears, and a part of me feels terrible for cracking under the pressure and making him upset. But another part of me is relieved to have finally gotten this out in the open.
“I blame myself for everything. It’s really messed with me.” Dad flinches at my words.
“I thought you’d—”He stares at the floor, searching for the next words. “I thought…” He swallows hard and tries again. “That I was…” His brow furrows. “Hurting you.”
The admission lands like a punch.
I shake my head, a hollow laugh escaping me. “You don’t get to decide that.”
He tries to speak again, the effort clear in every strained syllable, but I’ve reached my limit. Years of unanswered questions, of waiting for him to bridge the distance, of hoping he’d fight harder for a relationship with me.