Chapter 2: The Weight of Goodbye

The day my father passed, he looked as if he’d been struck by lightning.

I’ll never forget it—his eyes wild, hair standing up, skin pale as the clouds before a Midwest storm. It was the sort of look you see on a man who’s just had everything he loves ripped away, then handed back a puzzle with half the pieces missing.

Somehow, he pulled himself together. He shook the dirt off, wiped his face with the back of his hand, and kept going, the way men do when there’s nobody else left to carry the weight.

He came through the front door so fast he nearly tore it off its hinges, all that grief wound tight inside him. He set down his coat and got straight to work in the kitchen—no words, just the sound of chopping and the rattle of pans.

It’s kind of a family joke—me, the kid with a green thumb and a bottomless appetite for asparagus. Even as a toddler, I’d reach for spears instead of cookies. Most kids begged for Pop-Tarts or fries. Me? I just wanted asparagus—grilled, pickled, you name it.

He got dirt under his nails digging in the backyard for the last shoots, then spent hours at the kitchen sink, humming to himself as he cleaned and diced. He barely slept, the kitchen light burning all night. By dawn, the counter was stacked with neat little sandwiches, each one wrapped in wax paper, his calloused hands moving gentle as a lullaby.

He’d experimented, too—sweet, spicy, tangy, and everything in between. The pickled mustard reminded me of Grandma’s Sunday suppers, the spicy version of summer barbecues, the apple one a surprise burst of crisp sweetness.

The cornbread was golden and crumbly, the dinner rolls soft as clouds. The smell alone was enough to make me forget everything for a minute.

The whole house filled with that warm, buttery scent. My stomach growled, and for a moment, the world didn’t feel so empty.

He adjusted his cap, hoisted that beat-up bat—the one from his high school glory days—onto his shoulder, and pressed a kiss to my forehead. He gave me a look I’ll never forget: part sorrow, part hope, all love.

He didn’t have to say it. It was in the way he squared his shoulders, in the set of his jaw. He’d made up his mind—he was going to finish what needed to be done.

Uncle Rick always smelled like coffee and motor oil, his boots leaving muddy prints on our porch. He stood beside me, silent, the two of us just shadows in the doorway. Together, we watched Dad disappear down the sidewalk, his boots thudding out a slow, final rhythm.

His voice was tired, heavy with a kind of pain you can only get from years of seeing things you can’t fix. He didn’t look at me; he just stared out at the empty street.

The words echoed in my head, bitter and sharp. Was there ever really an answer to that?

I was never the smartest kid—always tripped over my words, always the last to finish a test. But I knew one thing: you don’t let someone hurt your family and walk away. Maybe that’s simple, but it’s real.