Page 65 of The Christmas Yes List

Well, I guess that makes sense. My father isn’t a random traveling interstate snake, so I had to know this is where the story was going.

“She sat on that porch all night long waiting for him. All the way ’til the sun came up.”

Horrifying. “And what did you do?”

He shrugs.

I wait.

“I came by as I always did on Saturdays and picked her up for breakfast,” he says simply.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I always took Elle out to breakfast on Saturdays.”

“Yes, I know that part of your history.” That part was cute. But this? This was next level.

“Her mother called me around six o’clock when she came downstairs and saw Elle asleep on the porch swing with all her things. And so . . . around seven I came over. Helped her take her things back to her room. And we went to get breakfast.”

“And you just . . . forgave her? You just pretended nothing had happened?” I marvel.

“Wasn’t anything to forgive, really. She hadn’t married me yet.”

“She broke your heart.”

“She hurt me deeply, but . . . nobody can go through life without making any mistakes.”

“So you two just . . . went out . . . for breakfast. Did you even talk about it?”

“Not at breakfast. No.” He rubs his nose. “Elle was pretty sore about it all, embarrassed and . . . well, I figured she’d talk about it when the time was right. Which she did, eventually. But in the meantime, people gotta eat.”

I laugh. It’s just so audacious. And so typical.

And true. I guess people do.

I can just see my father going along, eating eggs and pancakes and quietly helping her in and out of the truck, taking one step of life at a time without rushing to wonder what would happen next. For me, on the other hand, the anticipation of not knowing the unknown would’ve killed me.

“What if she had eaten breakfast with you and said she was still breaking up with you?” I ask.

“Then we would’ve been broken up,” he answers simply. “But that wasn’t how Elle felt, after she had some time to think it through. And we got married the following June.”

“And have been happy ever since.” I sit back down, dazed by this story of our family history and quite possibly even more dazed at how everybody in this town could’ve kept something as juicy as this from me all these years. Meanwhile, Dad loads a few more logs on.

He puts out a hand. “The point is, Chloe, you asked for advice. And my advice to you is this: A man can make you smile for a moment. Anyone can walk up and offer up the world. But character will give you something to hang on to for a lifetime.”

He pauses, letting that sink in for a moment, before he continues. “A good partner isn’t perfect—as both your mama and I know—and dry seasons and flood years in life will certainly come. But a good partner is one who can acknowledge when he or she makes a mistake, anchors their moral compass in the hands of the good Lord, and commits to growing in humility, honesty, respect, and love along the way. That person might not be flashy. They might not draw every eye in the room. But if they keep their promises, tell the truth, and show up when it counts—that’s the kind of love you can build a home on. That’s the kind of man I want to see for you.”

And with that, my father, who has clearly used up both his word quota and his emotional quota for the day, turns on the splitter again.

“I’ll . . . do my best,” I say simply.

He nods.

Eventually I crack open my book, still processing this revelatory story about my parents and the advice Dad had to give. It was advice crafted for me specifically, with the price tag of revealing something he doesn’t like to dig up. It’s something to pay attention to.

I feel I need to write it down, actually. His words. Just as close to verbatim as I can.

So that’s exactly what I do: Trudge into the house and return with my journal, trying to make a permanent memory out of Dad’s few but meaningful remarks.