The porch swing creaked and groaned beneath me, the tired wood protesting my weight. Early morning sunlight glinted off thousands of dew drops clinging to blades of grass and trembling leaves. The breeze whispered like a lover’s secret. Occasionally, a fish rippled the surface of the pond, breaking through for a careless insect.
These were the kinds of mornings my dad had loved. A chill in the air, steaming coffee in one hand, the newspaper in the other. Sometimes a stogie instead. Now, the space beside me was empty.
An icy hand walked up my spine, one finger after the other. Goosebumps chased it.
“Here, this’ll knock that chill back.”
Mom had slipped through the squeaky screen door, a steaming cup in hand. “Your father wouldn’t want you to be like this.” She nodded toward my legs. I pulled them in tighter so she could sit.
“Like what?” I asked, taking a sip while eyeing her over the rim of my cup. Black and bold—Sumatran dark roast. The heat burned my tongue just enough before it sank into my chest and pushed the cold out.
“You know what. Don’t play coy.”
Her voice was firm, with just a trace of heat behind it. Enough to warm me further.
She was trying to be strong—for both of us. But Dad’s death sagged her shoulders, slowed her steps. Her grief was deeper than mine, hidden behind fake smiles and relentless busywork: pulling weeds, polishing china fifteen times in a week, laundering linen that hadn’t been touched in five years. Anything to keep her hands moving. Anything to outrun memory.
It showed. Mom seemed to have aged a year for every month since Dad passed. Her skin bruised easily now, her crow’s feet were now hawk’s talons, and the luster in her gray eyes had dimmed.
I looked across the pond—the ripples had settled. Songbirds were in full chorus. The dew was nearly gone. I took another sip of coffee and imagined myself shrinking, small enough to fall into the cup and disappear into its blackness.
“The longer you hold in the pain,” she said, “the harder it’ll be to shake it. Your father doesn’t want that for you.”
I sat upright, too fast. “Don’t you mean didn’t!”
The words burst out before I could stop them—raw, bitter, with the kind of thick, black fury sadness leaves behind. My throat tightened on the tar. I cleared it twice before speaking again. “I’m sorry. It just came out.”
Mom had already turned back toward the house. She paused at the door and looked over her shoulder.
“It’s okay to cry.”
“No, it isn’t,” I said, still crass. “Dad never did. Jacob never did. And I won’t.”
Jacob, my older brother, had died during a training exercise ten years ago.
She disappeared inside, then returned a few minutes later holding a diary in one hand and a box of tissues in the other. She sat beside me and patted the spot next to her.
“Do you remember when you broke your arm?”
“I was six, so…vaguely.” I sat down, feeling the edges of suspicion creep into my mind.
“Your dad and I used to talk every night after you kids went to bed. That night, after we got home from the clinic, I tried to get him to open up. He was so upset...”
“I don’t remember that. I don’t remember him being upset at all.”
“Why would you? You were distracted by the cast—it was like a shiny new toy to you.” A small smile lifted her face as she thumbed through her diary. When she found the entry, she handed it to me.
I found Robert in the barn. He was slumped over the workbench, holding himself up with shaking arms. His chest was heaving. He was crying. I walked to him and put my arm around his shoulders.
“What is it?” I asked, cupping his face in my hands.
He poked his chest with one finger. “It’s my fault.” Weak, defeated.
“What is?”
“Maddy’s broken arm. I turned my back for just a second.” He pinched two fingers together. “I heard her hit the ground. I heard the bone snap. I grabbed the bridle and hurried Jess away—didn’t want my horse panicking and stomping her. You know how skittish Jess is. When I got back to her, she was already trying to stand. But one arm…”
“Go on,” I said, my heart already splintering.
“Her arm just dangled there.” He paused, then looked at me. “My job,” his voice broke, “is to keep her safe. And I didn’t.”
I shook my head. “No, no, no. It was an accident. Maddy doesn’t blame you. I don’t blame you.” I held him until the storm passed. After a while, he spoke again.
“I wanted her to cry. But she wouldn’t. She never does. I wanted to be her rock. I wanted to tell her it would be okay. But she just held her arm and said it hurt.”
I didn’t finish the rest. I couldn’t. I closed the diary and handed it back.
“I didn’t know.”
“Of course not. Your dad didn’t want you kids to see him cry. He didn’t want you to think he was weak.”
She reached out and placed her hand on my arm—right where I’d broken it so many years ago.
“You can cry, Maddy.”
Then she stood and went inside.
I sat there for a long while, turning over the pages in my mind. The box of tissues sat next to me on the swing, a quiet invitation. A final hint.
I stared blankly over the water. But I didn’t cry. Not then.
