Page 95 of Not Until I Found You

Zane watches me expectantly. “Well?”

My face immediately scrunches. “I don’t understand why thirteen-year-old you stole these from your grandpa.”

He bursts out a loud cackle. “Not a fan?”

“Let’s just say I won’t be stealing these from your fridge.”

“More for me, then.” He takes the bottle from my hand and drinks from it without hesitation. “Not that you asked for my advice, but it might bring you peace if you talk to your dad about how you’ve been feeling. You both desperately need to get everything out in the open so you can move forward.”

I know he’s right. It doesn’t make it any easier to face, though. I dread confronting my dad, but it needs to happen.

Zane tilts his head closer. “Can I pray for you?”

Most people offer advice when they don’t know what to say, while others change the subject entirely. But Zane doesn’t try to fix me. He sees the hurt I’ve been trying to hide and offers to carry it with me.

My throat tightens, and I nod. “Uh…yeah. That’d be nice.”

He takes my hand back into his as we bow our heads.

“Lord, please guide both Maxinne and Charlie today as they take a leap of faith into healing their relationship. Please give Maxinne peace, courage, and compassion as she faces her dad today. Please bring understanding and forgiveness to them both. For we know that the only way to truly heal is through You. It is in your name that we pray, amen.”

My eyes sting with tears as the tension in my chest loosens at his words. I’ve learned lately that with prayer comes an unspeakable comfort and peace. I welcome it with open arms.

“Amen,” I repeat.

My nerves return as soon as I park in Dad’s driveway. The trembling in my hands jingles the keys as I place them into my purse, and I stay seated for a moment longer. I stare at Dad’s cabin and wonder if he’s even awake yet. I don’t know what I’m hoping for. Maybe to find some closure or that, when I leave here today, I won’t feel any worse than I already do.

I draw in a slow breath, press my palm flat against my chest, and whisper a prayer. I’ve been trying to pray more and talk to God often. I’m aware that my faith is a bit rusty, but since being in Covewood, I’ve been trying, and I know that’s better than nothing.

God, help me face him today. Help us get through this, please. I need your help.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I open the car door and make my way toward Dad’s cabin. It feels like déjà vu as I reflect on the first time I walked up to this place feeling the same sense of apprehension. My hands are still shaking when I go to open the door to let myself inside.

I find my dad sleeping in his chair, the sounds of his snores vibrating through the room. I decide not to wake him and go into the kitchen to start preparing us some breakfast. By the time I’m putting the fried eggs, bacon, and sourdough toast onto his plate, and an avocado toast on mine, Dad appears in the doorframe.

His eyes widen in shock. I know, Dad, I’m just as surprised as you are.

“Hi,” I say quietly, holding up the plates of breakfast as a sort of truce. “I made breakfast.”

His mouth opens and then closes. His brow pulls tight as he attempts to work his words free.

“You didn’t have…” he gets out, shaking his head out of frustration before he backs out of the way and walks into the dining room.

“Maybe not. But I did it anyway.”

I gesture for him to sit down at the table, his chair scraping faintly as he goes to sit, and I set the plate down in front of him. I’m a bit awkward when I try to choose which seat I want to sit in. Do I want to sit next to him, or do I want a little space between us? He pats the chair next to him, and I finally take a seat.

I smooth my hands over my jeans and begin fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. I notice the paper clutched in Dad’s left hand, the edges worn soft from being folded and unfolded too many times. His fingers tremble as he slides it across the table toward me.

I raise a brow in question, looking at the paper and then to him. “What is this?”

He takes in a deep breath, fresh tears shining in his eyes, and compassion washes over me for Dad and the weight he’s been carrying for far too long. He’s had words in him that he’s held hostage for years, and now he’s struggling to find a way to say them.

My fingers hover over the paper before I finally open it, the soft crinkle echoing far too loudly in this quiet room. His handwriting is uneven, the letters slanting a bit, some words crowding together, and others scratched out and rewritten. But I’m still able to read it.

I’m sorry I missed out on being a part of your life.

I wanted to be there, but I was broken.