I glanced at my watch, knowing in three hours I would be meeting Addi at the altar. I could hardly wait.
“Let’s do this.”I came out of my room, pulling on my bow tie. “Dad, I need help.”
He laughed, standing up and approaching me. His once silver hair was now pure white, and his laugh lines were deep around his eyes and mouth. But his back was straight, his shoulders broad, and he was strong. We had a close relationship. My mother said I was him made over except for my eyes, which were like hers. I did bear a strong resemblance to him, although I liked to tease him and say I was better-looking.
He was a great father, always there for Shelby and me. He was endlessly patient, never raised his voice, and was fiercely protective. He had been thrilled when I developed my love of numbers, encouraging me and helping me every step of the way. He’d been so proud when I graduated early and continued on to become a certified accountant like him. Shelby was the exact opposite—a dreamer and artistic to the core. She painted and drew, her fingers constantly covered in paint and ink. Her room was too until Dad had Van build her a little studio in the BAM building, where she happily spent most of her time after she left school. She worked at a local gallery, surrounded by art, and dedicated the rest of her time to creating.
He straightened the ends of the fabric with a shake of his head. “You have never got the hang of this.”
“Didn’t need to,” I quipped. “I had you.”
His hands stilled, and he met my eyes. His light blue shimmered, and he blinked. “You always will, Brayden.”
I was shocked at the emotion on his face and in his voice. My dad gave us lots of hugs and always told us how much he loved us, how proud he was, but other than rare occasions, he kept his emotions hidden. I knew he shared them openly with my mother, but it was uncommon to see a crack in his façade.
I laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know, Dad. You have always been there for me.”
He nodded, looking over my shoulder. “I never had that growing up, and I wanted to make sure you knew how important you were—you are—to me.”
I knew about his childhood. When I was old enough, he had told me. He was worried he wasn’t a good enough dad, but I hadn’t lied when I told him I couldn’t have a better one. Maddox Riley was everything I wanted to be for my own kids. Strong, loving, and generous. I wanted to be the kind of husband he was to my mother. I wanted Addi to look at me years down the road and know she was as important to me then as she was when we began. More so, even. My parents’ relationship, although not perfect, was strong and unbreakable. They laughed and loved, fought and cried. Made up and carried on. Devoted themselves to each other and to us.
“I do know, Dad. You’ve always told me how much you loved me.”
He cleared his throat, but the words were still choked.
“I know wedding days are mostly about the bride. Bentley is having an inner meltdown over Addi getting married today.” He tried to smile, but his lips trembled. “But I am as well. You’re my boy, Brayden. Something I did right from the moment you were born.”
He didn’t let me say anything. “I wanted to give you something today. Impart wisdom and sage advice, but to be honest, you don’t need it. You’re amazing, son. You’re loving and giving. Your mother and I are incredibly proud of the man you’ve become.”
I felt tears gather at his words.
“Bentley gave Addi something today for her old. Something that meant a great deal to him. Again, I know it’s the bride’s tradition, but I wanted to give you something as well. Something as precious to me as you are.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Something for your future I hope you’ll use.”
I couldn’t speak. My throat was too thick, so I nodded.
He tilted his chin, and I turned, noticing something I hadn’t until now.
A small lamp I recalled from my childhood was sitting on the counter. I’d learned the history of it as I got older, finally understanding the reason it was so special to my father. A broken piece of his childhood my mother had restored. It sat in the nursery when I was a child, and I often touched the paint, gazing at the truck and the streetlight that stood over it, almost protecting it.
My dad would use it every night as he read to me. Turned it on when I was scared, to comfort me. Take off the shade and make hand puppets in the light thrown against the wall. It was always there when I was growing up.