Page 58 of Till The Cows Come Home
That wasn’t the case any longer.
I insisted on grieving so loudly that everyone around me was forced to feel what I lost and how badly it hurt, but I hadn’t stopped for even a moment to really think. Instead, I chose to be naive to the fact that my father sat in front of me with the biggest grief of them all.
“You lost them too.”
“I lost them too,” he repeated, giving my hand a squeeze.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard the wails of the ones who couldn’t escape. I’d woken in a sweat each time the exhaustion took over, and each time I’d been relieved for mere seconds before realizing that the nightmare was reality. I feltthis weight from the twenty-eight years I lived on the farm, but I wasn't the one who stood in the lot marveling at its potential before Baker Farm even existed. I didn’t pick out the first few heifers, I didn’t scour over the finances that eventually became our fault, and I definitely wasn’t the one who handed over the keys when the sale went through. If anyone’s grief deserved to be loud, it'd be my father’s and instead he sat here quietly, eternally putting my needs before his own.
“I’m sorry, dad,” I whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, sweetheart, but we cannot continue on this way.”
“How did you move on?” I questioned, desperate to escape the pain.
“Grieving something that still existed was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I did it for you and your mother. The people you love will always be more important, and the moment you risk losing them, it’s time to reconsider. Farming was my passion, but my family was the fuel. And yes, before you interject, you can fuel your own passion, but is that what you want? Because if it is, we’ll support you. But I watched your face as you walked away from Miles. I saw you prepare yourself to grieve and at that moment, it wasn’t for the cows. The world of agriculture was my life, and still is my passion, but when you’re in the business of family farming, you have to take care of your family or you’re just left with farming. Find the balance, Sage.”
I nodded, thankful when my mother conveniently appeared with the kettle. She had been lurking, and chuckled when she poured the now lukewarm water into our mugs. I sipped gratefully nonetheless, looking over my tea to sneak a peek at my parents sitting side by side. My mother’s arm looped through my father’s and she sat with her head resting perfectly on his bicep, almost as she’d worn a spot there over the years. My parents never shielded me fromtheir affection, something I used to groan about as a teenager, but I finally understood it. I understood what it felt like to crave the closeness of another, to have someone be your rock when times were unsteady.
“I think I love him,” I said to myself, realizing after a moment that I’d said my thoughts aloud, and when I looked up, both my parents were gawking with wide eyes.
“We know,” my mother said, breaking the awkward silence.
“Then why do you look so surprised?”
“Quite honestly, sweetheart, we never thought you’d admit it.” My father chuckled.
“Dad!”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, a smirk plastered across his face.
“What do I do now?”
“I’d start with an apology,” my father suggested. “He may not accept it, but he deserves it. You both experienced a trauma, and no matter the outcome, you need to clear your conscience on how you handled it.”
I stood, rounding the table to where I sat before planting a kiss atop both of their heads.
“I love you guys. I’m so sorry for everything. I’ll fix it, I promise.”
“One thing at a time,” my mom chastised, “But we love you too, faults included.”
I hovered nervously until my mother eventually swatted me away.
“Go! Win back that sweet man, because I’m not sure another will put up with you.”
After excusing myself, I disappeared into the guest room, and as I sat on the edge of the bed, I stared down at my phone, looking into the green eyes that stared back at me.
My chest filled then deflated, and as the last of my breath left my body, I dialed.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Miles
Itossed and turned all night, chasing the release of sleep, but thoughts continued to plague my mind. Flashbacks of what happened mixed with scenarios of how I’d wished it went kept me teetering above the escape I was desperate to fall into. Only after hours of restlessness was I able to doze off, just to wake at four as usual, and as I sat up in bed, ready to start my day, my chest ached as the reality surfaced.
I had no day to start.
The insurance office didn’t open until eight, which meant I had four hours to occupy myself in order to ward off the lunacy that would accompany me if I allowed myself to have idle hands. So I rose, despite my brain and body begging me to stay in bed. I allowed routine to steer me, which I presume is how I ended up in the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee, and as I waited for the machine to wake, shaking myself from the mechanical motions, I gathered a pad and pen from the junk drawer.
