Page 16 of Always Meant for You
I peer across the hallway at Jamie’s door, and the ache rushes in.
“I cannot believe you’re talking about a town council meeting the day you bury your son,” I say, too angry to hold back. And I don’t. My voice doesn’t crack. It cuts.
He shrugs that infuriating farmer shrug. “What’s done is done, Mabel Ruth.”
His voice is quiet. Final. Nailed shut.
What’s done is done.
I bite the inside of my cheek. That phrase makes me want to scream. Those meaningless words disguised as wisdom. Thrown around like chicken feed when crops fail, when cows die, when things break, and no one wants to feel the weight of it.
Now he’s using it for Jamie.
Elias Muldowney stands tall despite the stoop in his back. His thinning hair clings to his forehead, his hazel eyes sunken in. He draws in a breath and winces, curling his right hand into his chest.
My anger disappears, and I’m a little girl again, worried about her daddy.
“Are you okay? Did you hurt your hand? What can I do?”
“It’s nothing. Don’t fuss,” he mutters, his jaw tight.
I see the pain he won’t name. How grief hollows him out. His strength is splintered, buried under silence and grit, and the years he’s spent hiding anything that might look like vulnerability.
I know he misses my mom. When he thinks he’s alone, I catch him gazing at the picture of the four of us on the table in the living room. But he won’t talk about her. He barely looked at her grave today, despite Jamie being buried beside her.
We could lean on each other. We’re all we’ve got. But that won’t happen. Maybe we’re too proud or too stubborn.
Maybe the spaces between us have been empty for too long to ever bridge.
He crosses his arms. His gaze drops straight to my pink heels.
And there it is.
I can predict precisely what will happen next.
My father releases a disapproving huff. “I won’t have your drama, Mabel. Change what you’re wearing. I’m not arguing with you about it today. The town came to pay respects to your brother. You can at least be respectful too.”
Despite knowing we’d be here in this old, tired fight we’ve been having for years, I’m trembling with rage.
“I’m wearing a black dress. My attire is appropriate.”
“It’s the shoes,” he snaps. “Today is about Jamie. It’s not about you sparking gossip.”
“I’m twenty-one, Dad.” My voice climbs before I can stop it. “Not eight. You don’t get to tell me what to wear.”
His arms stay crossed. “As long as you’re living under my roof, Mabel, I make the rules.”
I don’t flinch. I’ve done that enough in this house.
But I do have a new angle.
“You know what, Dad,” I say, my voice shaking with the force of everything I’ve never said, “Jamie never tried to make me smaller. He never acted ashamed of me. He didn’t laugh at me or treat my dreams like they were foolish. He was the one who drove me two hours to get my passport. And he liked these shoes. He liked the color.”
“Jamie had a sweet spot for you. You could do no wrong in his eyes,” my father says, a weariness woven into his words.
“Yeah,” I cry, raising my voice, “and now he’s gone. And I’ve got nobody.”
His eyes flicker, but he buries it fast, shaking his head. “Quiet down. For once in God knows how long, come downstairs and be what this town needs you to be. And without those shoes. You’re making a mockery of yourself.”
