Page 79 of When Wildflowers Bloom

I cry into my dad in the rain for a life I hate. The different life I can never have.

“Shhhh,” he hushes, rubbing my back. “Shhhh.” Over and over until the well of my tears runs dry in the cool rain.

He walks me inside, flips on the furnace, and gets me a blanket as I sit on the couch.

“Tea?” he asks from the kitchen that opens into the living room.

I sniff, wiping my nose with my sleeve, and nod. He fills a kettle with water and turns the knob on the stove, the familiarclick! click! click!until the flame catches.

“Veda has cancer. It’s spreading. She doesn’t have much time left,” I say, words distant. Like someone else said them into a glass on the other side of the wall.

My dad’s lips droop into a frown. “I’m sor—”

“And she doesn’t want me to tell Bo,” I say, not letting him finish. A fresh burn builds in my throat, and my own misery leaks down my face.

“She’s not going to fight,” I stutter through my tears, wiping my nose again. “And she doesn't want Bo to see her the way we saw—” Another loud sob rips out of me, and I bring my hands to my face, jamming my palms into my eyes, trying to press the sadness off me.

My dad sits next to me, tea in hand.

I blow out a calming breath, leveling myself out before I continue. “She doesn’t want Bo to see her the way we saw Mom, and she doesn’t want him to try and change her mind about treatment.”

I take the mug from him, cupping it in both hands, and see sadness fill his eyes.

Then, we’re quiet. I don’t know how long we sit there, but it’s long enough for the dog to push through the doggy door with a muddy stick and chew it into mulch chunks without either of us saying anything about it.

“You can’t tell him, Birdie,” he finally says.

I already knew that, but a pit forms in my stomach anyway. The only response I give is a heavy sigh.

“You telling him will make her last days worse,” he says, giving one of his prolific pauses that means something is coming that I’m not prepared for. “Your mom didn’t want to do that last round of treatment.”

My mug shakes in my hands with the confession, and I go lightheaded. “What?” I whisper, stunned.

“The doctors said it had spread too much; treatment was a last-ditch effort at buying just a little more time. She told me it wouldn’t be worth it. It would be bad months on top of bad months. I begged her to try.” His voice cracks, eyes glassy. Hedoesn’t look at me, he’s looking straight ahead to a shelf, at their wedding picture in a frame. My mom is in a long white dress, a bouquet of wildflowers in her hand, my dad in a suit. Both beaming.

“I thought,” he pauses again, swallows hard, then continues. “I thought that miracles happen every day. One more treatment might be where our miracle was waiting. That’s what I said to her.” He picks his scotch up from the coffee table and takes a sip. “Those last weeks in the hospital—her pain, the weakness.” He shakes his head. “I kept thinking, I did this to her.” His voice cracks again, and this time it comes with a tear that falls down his face.

I take his hand in mine and lean my head on his shoulder. We sit in puddles of our own grief.

When I finally have the capacity to speak again, it’s quiet. Hoarse. “I’m in love with Bo, Dad.”

He sighs, heavy, like he’s holding every ounce of the weight I’m carrying. “I know you are, Little Bird. You still can’t tell him.”

I nod, my head still on his shoulder. “What am I supposed to do?”

He pauses, long and weighted. I don’t ask, but I wonder if he’s thinking about everything he would have changed with Mom. Blaming himself for things that are never anyone’s fault though we like to pretend they are.

“You hope he realizes the gift you’ve given him when the time comes.”

Thirty-two

I ignore Bo.

He calls. He texts. I avoid him.

When I get home from my dad’s, his message of,I haven’t talked to you all day. I miss you,earns a response from me of,Sorry, crazy day. I’m beat. It’s the most stripped-down version of the truth I can give.

Friday, with Mabel, I force myself through book club and our usual banter, but there’s no enthusiasm. I don’t even tell her about Bo starring in my very own lumberjack fantasy just a week prior.

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