There was a collection of poems that I’d written but never showed him.
Each was titled the same: Warren .
Holding the key in my fist, I knock softly on the door.
When it swings open, my mother isn’t there waiting with open arms. My dad isn’t standing nearby with the same smile on his face that has always been there when I’ve shown up on their doorstep for a surprise visit.
Cleta, their house manager, eyes me from head-to-toe taking in the floral dress I’m wearing. My mom bought it for me last year on Mother’s Day. “I see that you made it.”
Cleta has worked for my parents for as long as I can remember. She would never let anyone call her a nanny or a childcare provider, but that’s exactly what she was when Nelson and I were children.
She was the person who picked us up from school and attended most of our plays and holiday concerts. Our mom would be there next to Cleta if time permitted, but it wasn’t often that I’d look out into the crowd and see her.
I always saw Cleta, though. Sometimes she’d smile at me, but more often than not, she’d wave with a slight grin. It was barely noticeable, and as I got older, I wondered if she seemed sad because she’d devoted her life to my family instead of having one of her own.
“Hi, Cleta,” I say softly. “How are you?”
“Fine.” The word is curt and cut with disappointment.
I’ve heard that tone from her before. The first time was when I was nine, and I snuck out of the apartment with Nelson’s skateboard. I ended up with three stitches in my chin and a furious neighbor screaming at me because I’d crashed into the back of his Mercedes.
That was also the first time I ever heard my dad scold me in a way that cut to the bone.
I’ll never forget his words as we drove back from the hospital. “ You’re a disaster, Afton .”
The next morning he explained it away by saying he was stressed and tired, but on my tenth birthday when I set the tablecloth on fire trying to light my pink candles, his words cut deeper.
“ You’re a walking, talking grenade, Afton. Everything in your path explodes.”
I heard those same words from him when I dropped out of college before earning my business degree and when I quit photography school early when I was accepted into a prestigious culinary school.
“ You never complete anything. You have to learn how to pay attention and follow through .”
I shake off those thoughts, so I can focus on the here and now. My dad and I have come a long way. He’s proven that he’s proud of me. I know if I can explain why I fled the church, he’ll see that I was following my heart. My mom will understand too.
“Are they having a cocktail?” I glance toward the main living area.
My parents make a point of sitting down together every day before dinner for a drink and to share stories about their days.
“They’re in Nantucket.”
My gaze trails back to Cleta’s face and the fine lines that now rim her thin lips. “What?”
“Your mother couldn’t handle all the calls and questions.” She shakes her head, her green eyes narrowing. “It’s all anyone is talking about.”
I don’t need any explanation about what the chatter among the elite sixty-something women of Upper Manhattan is about. I know I handed them everything they needed to badger my mom into humiliation when I left Warren at the altar.
“Your dad took her to the beach house.” She sighs. “We’re hopeful she’ll recover soon. I hope he does too. I’ve never seen him this disappointed in you before, Afton.”
My gaze drops. “I was supposed to meet them to talk about things.”
She takes a step closer to me. “They’ll be back when they feel ready. Maybe you should take that time to think about how you’ll ask for their forgiveness.”
I raise my chin to meet her eye. I want to tell her that I love them and want to rewind time to a week ago, a month, or even last year. If I could transport myself back to the day Warren proposed, I would.
I’d let him down easy. I’d tell him that I cared for him but that I want to more than care for the man I marry. I want to crave his touch and drown in his voice. I want to wake up excited each day that out of all the people on this planet, I found the one who understands the value of my heart.
That wasn’t Warren. It will never be Warren.
“I’ve packed up your bedroom,” she announces without warning. “I’ll have everything shipped to your place.”
Pain as sharp as a jagged knife shoots through my heart. “All right.”