He inhales another deep breath before forcing it out as if what he’s about to reveal is still tender and painful. “We discovered your mom had something called fibroids when she was pregnant with you. After that, they got worse and eventually she had to have a hysterectomy.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat before adding, “Which is to say-”
Holding up a hand, I cut him off. “I know what it means, dad. She had to have her uterus removed.” My heart actually clenches as I whisper, “Which means no more kids.”
He shakes his head. “No more kids.”
Feeling slightly dazed, I sit back, staring at my dad. “I never knew that had happened to her.”
Shrugging, he uses his thumb nail to pick at the label on the brown glass bottle as he continues, “You were very young when it happened. I’m not surprised you don’t remember. And it was a very painful subject for your mom to talk about. She’d always wanted to have a big family but I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. So we contented ourselves with you. And I think teaching filled a part of that void as well. Being around all those kids. She loved them.” He actually smiles just a bit. “Even the mischievous ones.”
My mom was a wonderful second grade teacher. Everyone adored her. She was warm and fuzzy but tough as tacks when she needed to be. She’d dedicated her entire life to working with children. Instilling within them a love for reading no matter what level they were at. I’d always admired how dedicated and passionate she was about her profession.
When she finally had to stop working, so many of her former students and their parents stopped by the house to spend time with her. Colleagues she’d taught with for more than a decade would come by, dropping off knitted hats when she lost her hair because of the chemo. Or blankets because she would get so cold. They would bring books for her to read and old photos of her teaching in the classroom to laugh over.
Yes, my mom loved me and she enjoyed the kids she taught at Harper Elementary School.
But none of that explains how he could just move on from the woman he claimed to love after she lost her battle with cancer. “None of that helps me to understand what happened, dad.”
His eyes flick away for just a moment before arrowing straight back to mine. “We were happy, Ivy. The three of us. We had a good life. It was devastating when your mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. It seemed to come out of left field. But I thought, okay- we’re going to beat this. She’s a fighter.”
I hate thinking about that time. How hard the chemo was. How sick my mom would get. The failed treatment plans. Always living for the next test results. Always worried about what tomorrow would bring. And then sitting by helplessly as she slowly deteriorated. Becoming weaker. More frail. Until she was really just a pale shadow of the vibrant, outgoing woman she’d once been.
He slides a hand roughly through his peppered hair as his eyes take on a glassy, faraway look before continuing softly, “It was so hard to watch. Hard to realize, and then finally accept, that the treatments weren’t working, that we were losing the battle.”
My heart cracks wide open as I silently listen to him talk about such a difficult period in both our lives. But at least he’s talking about it now. At least he’s finally letting me in. Even though it hurts to discuss, I don’t feel quite so alone with my pain. Like I have to continue nursing it all by myself.
“It was hard on all of us.” Clearing my throat, I finally whisper, “Mom included.”
Eyes wide, he nods in agreement. “Of course it was. She lost her life. She’s missing out on seeing what a wonderful, smart, talented daughter she raised.”
As soon as he says those words, my eyes flood with moisture.
“After you’re mom died, I guess…” he gulps, “I guess I shut down. It felt too raw to deal with. I started putting in a lot of hours at work. It was hard being at home where everything reminded me of her. Of the life we had built together, the life we no longer had. It was just easier to stay away. And you were only fifteen years old at the time. I didn’t want to burden you with what I was feeling.” Pausing, he wipes some of the dampness from his own eyes.
“Leah was just a colleague at that point. She was someone I had worked with for years. We weren’t close. A couple of weeks after your mom passed away, she came into my office and told me about her mother dying of cancer. As weird as it sounds, we had that loss in common. She could understand everything I’d been going through, all the grief and anger and depression. It was nice to share my feelings with her. To finally open up with someone who wasn’t involved in the situation.” He gives a tiny jerk of his shoulders. “I guess our relationship developed quickly from there.”