Page 31 of Miss Understanding

I didn’t get out of the truck. Just sat there gazing out the window, taking in the peaceful landscape the freshly fallen snow had made. My father’s ashes would be buried here. Eventually, so would my mother.

My sister had told me she planned to buy a plot for her family here, too. She’d asked if I wanted to be included, but I’d declined. I wasn’t ready to think about it. Nor did I want to face the fact I led a lonely existence. How depressing to think at the end of my circle, I’d probably end up buried in the same small town I’d avoided for my entire adult life.

This town and all of the painful memories were the reasons I hadn’t been able to wait to get out. Start over. Become a new version of Liam Davenport where everyone didn’t know about the verbal abuse, bruises, and the abandonment. Where people didn’t whisper with looks of sympathy when they saw my mother using food stamps at the local grocery store. Those days might be long over, but the scars still ran deep.

Finally deciding to make my way to the funeral home for our appointment, I braced myself for the task of picking out the headstone. But I wasn’t prepared enough.

“I want it to say loving husband, father, and grandfather on the stone,” my mother announced to the director.

Wearing a tasteful suit, he sat in a comfortable room with the three of us.

I shared a look with my sister. Thankfully, both her girls were with her husband and wouldn’t be here for the tension-filled afternoon. I decided to voice my opinion first.

“Mom. I know you’d like to think of him that way, but Allison and I didn’t have a relationship with him.”

She sighed. “You would’ve if you’d answered his calls over the last few months. It’s my one regret that he wasn’t able to make amends to you.”

My gaze landed on the director. “Can you give us a moment, please?”

He was more than happy to excuse himself. Once he was gone, I took a deep breath, hating the fact I had to be the one to burst my mom’s imaginative recollection of things. “He wasn’t a loving husband, father, or grandfather.”

My mother was a religious woman who believed in forgiveness. And who hadn’t wanted to move on despite her husband being gone for years. Her religion was probably why she never divorced him, despite my urging once I’d become a lawyer. She hadn’t wanted to break her vows even after he’d shattered every single one.

“He was a good husband, father, and grandfather in the end.”

I stood up and went to the window. “Not when it counted.” My last word broke in my throat. This was too much. I wanted to rage about not paying for it, but I wasn’t dick enough to threaten something so petty.

Luckily, my sister backed me, her words causing me to turn. “Mom. It’s too much to ask of us. Instead, it could say loving husband if you want. But not the father part. Or we could simply have it say rest in peace—or something else. Please.”

My mother glanced between us and seemed to deflate under the weight of the truth. “Okay. If it’s what you both want.”

Allison and I both let out a breath of relief.

* * *

As I walked in the front door of the rental, the aroma hit me. It smelled delicious. Of course, I’d skipped lunch which had me starving.

In the kitchen, Kendall was slicing and dicing peppers with the precision of a proper chef. She had her iPad on the counter, watching some show, and was dressed casually. The way she worked was fascinating. She was so quick and efficient with her movements in the kitchen. Almost like a dancer who was expertly choreographed.

Suddenly she turned her head and startled at seeing me standing there. A yelp quickly followed.

“Oh, shit. Did you cut yourself?”

She was holding her finger and walking over to the sink. “Yeah. You startled me. Sorry.”

I was over in a flash to take her hand and inspect the damage. “Just a nick luckily.”

Her doe eyes locked on me. “Yeah, good thing they weren’t the sharp knives I’m used to.”

“Let me get you a Band-Aid.” Only I didn’t move. I simply stayed there with her hand in mine, staring at her.

“I think I have one in my purse. It’s on the kitchen table stool. Look in the side pocket.”

There was something strangely intimate about going into a woman’s purse. But with her bleeding over the sink and me to blame, who was I to argue? I tried not to focus on the cute little spotted change purse, the pack of cinnamon gum, or the strawberry lip gloss I’d already spent too many hours obsessing about. After pulling the adhesive strip out, I opened it for her.

She was over at the table, having put her finger in a paper towel, and reached for it. “Thanks.”

“I’ll do it. Hold your finger out.” It was always easier to have someone else do it.