Words Cut More than Actions

It was a chilly September day, and my hands felt numb as if frostbite had set in from the icy mist of water spraying back after a long day of pressure washing. I had backed up my two-ton truck onto the driveway and needed a moment--wiping granules of embedded dirt from my eyes and hair. I felt beaten by yet another day of swinging side-to-side and the jerking motion of a pressure washing wand over a two-story home and twenty-one hundred square feet of moss-covered pavement. The pinch in my mid-back and burn in my knees was proof that at my age, I didn’t know how much longer I could do this. But this lonely job often pulled me into the depths of “what-ifs” in life. It was that feeling of being defeated and longing for something better. What if I stayed in school? What if I raced the tour-de-France like I had always dreamed? Or what if the world read my memoirs and they made a movie out of it. Another day of dreams sucked from my soul. Yet, after fifteen years of blistered palms and a silent battle with depression, the one thing that keeps me pushing forward is family. This is why I grind because being happy at what I do is not as important as to why I live for them.

After working countless sunrises and sunsets often coming home too tired to even eat, tonight I finally planned to have dinner with my family. My rubber boots scraped across the cement garage floor and through the door into the kitchen then there they were--my wife of thirteen years and my beautiful twelve-year-old daughter sitting on the sofa snuggled, watching a re-run of Gilmore Girls. The aroma of my favorite food filled our home like an old, familiar blanket, or the scent of love and comfort like layers of lasagna baking in the oven. But instead, it was the smell of Seco de Carne, a tender spicy beef Peruvian Sunday favorite with potatoes that filled my senses.

Isabella leaped from the sofa and exclaimed, “Daddy!”

Sophia followed behind, wrapping me in an embrace and pressing a soft kiss on my lips. “I missed you! You look tired,” she said.

Isabella added, “Yeah, Dad. You do.”

I made an animated gesture, “Would’ve been here sooner but had a no-show. Gonna go shower. I’ll be back in a heartbeat.”

We later sat at the table and there was something familiar about the setting. It was magical. Our hands gently clenched as I gave thanks for this moment. I could no longer wait and dug my fork into the tender meat and took a heaping first bite. Isabella and Sophia waited to see how I would react, “Honey, this is the best Seco I’ve ever had.”

Sophia smiled, her eyes glistening, “You say that every time I make it.”

“That’s because it is.”

The conversation flowed and the Seco worked its magic, filling not just our stomachs but the space between us. We were done with eating when Isabella stepped into the kitchen and piled yet another heaping serving of seconds onto her plate. Sophia looked over and knew what I was thinking.

When she returned, she dug into her food as though we had only just started eating. I glanced at Sophia then back to Isabella and said, “Honey, maybe you should wait till tomorrow for that second portion.”

The room fell silent, and a heavy sense of regret began to creep in, overshadowing everything that had felt too good to be true. It was subtle, yet painfully obvious. I should’ve known better. I should’ve kept those words to myself, but it was too late--the damage was done. Those words would shatter the very moment I had been looking forward to all day.

Isabella’s expression darkened, and all I could manage to say was, “I’m sorry honey. I didn’t mean it that way.”

I would’ve gone through three times the pain and given my day’s wages to take back those words. I turned to Sophia hoping she could help me make Isabella understand that I was sorry for what I said.

“Honey, Daddy didn’t mean it that way.”

A tear trickled down her cheek and she softly whispered, “Then how did he mean it?” She then looked at me, “I see myself in the mirror every day. You don’t think I know.”

She pushed back from the table and made a beeline for her bedroom, leaving the remnants of her meal behind. Sophia looked at me and quietly said, “It will pass. Give it time.”

I replied with deep regret, “I can’t believe I said that. She, she’ll never forget.”

Sophia gently took my hand, “It was a mistake.”

I brought my head down in shame. “I have to go talk to her.”

Later that night, I stood outside her door and knocked gently.

"Come in.”

I entered the dimly lit room and found Isabella lying on her side, her back turned to me. I stood there for a moment, gathering myself because I knew I needed it. "Honey, I know... I--I’m sorry. Sometimes I say things the wrong way. I know this. But I want you to understand you’re,” I choked up, “that you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Ever,” I said, sitting on the edge of her bed. "I want you to know that, no matter what I say, my love for you is endless. I love you exactly the way you are. If you could forgive me I promise I will work harder at being a better father.”

It was then I would take the advice Sophia gave and give this time, and as I stood from her bedside and began to step away her voice called, “Dad?”

I turned.

She said softly, “You are the best father.”

A deep sense of validation washed over me, and the thought of starting over had never felt so good. I leaned over her bedside, and we embraced, holding each other tightly.

#ReedsyExpectations