Page 87 of Not Until I Found You

I’m cooking a pot roast and plan on making a blackberry pie out of the berries I picked today. Want to join us for dinner after work?

Zane

Dinner with you sounds perfect.

I bite my lip again, trying to contain the lightness stirring under my ribcage at his words.

Me

I’ll see you then.

By the time the sun begins its slow descent behind the ridge, my body hums with the kind of exhaustion that only comes from an honest day of work. My muscles might ache, but my mind is clearer after being on the homestead.

I finish hosing off my hands at the spigot near the garden, flicking dirt from beneath my fingernails before shutting the valve tight. The beds are weeded, the tomatoes staked, and the squash leaves inspected for pests. I hauled compost this morning, gathered eggs, and made sure Dad took his medication before we left for therapy.

Therapy days always take more out of him than he lets on—and more out of me than I’d like to admit too. Getting him there is half the battle because it seems like every public space becomes a challenge for him.

I understand that the brain injury he had years ago left him skittish and withdrawn from the world. I’ve picked up the signs here and there during his visits to therapy. If there are too many voices speaking around him, his gaze starts darting around and his fingers pluck at the hem of his shirt. He becomes quieter than usual, his words coming out more halted and strained, and he shrinks inward while I try to fill the silence for both of us.

Some days, it’s hard not to grieve the man he used to be.

I know, in theory, that his severe social anxiety shaped his choices when I was a child. But knowing of it and witnessing it are two very different things. Seeing it up close has softened my heart. It’s given me deeper understanding, but what it hasn’t given me is answers.

Like, why did he have to leave us? Couldn’t we have figured out a solution together? I don’t think I’ll ever understand the reason why he never visited after the divorce. Or why he never called or checked in. Didn’t we mean anything to him?

The questions sit heavy in my chest as I carry my gloves toward the greenhouse. I push the door open and step into the humid air. It wraps around me instantly, smelling of damp soil and plant life. Condensation beads along the glass panels overhead, reflecting the light in soft prisms. Rows of seedlings of basil, peppers, and heirloom tomatoes are stretched out before me. Each one is carefully labeled in my handwriting.

Almost like this place has became my own personal sanctuary.

I move instinctively, checking moisture levels, pinching back spent growth, rotating trays so everything gets its fair share of sunlight. I’m bent over a tray of chamomile when I sense someone behind me.

Dad is standing inside the doorway, both hands tucked into his pockets. His posture is stiff, as if he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to be here, even though he built this greenhouse with his own hands, much like the one he built me as a child, and that memory stings a bit.

“Hey,” I say gently before inhaling a deep breath. “It smells amazing in here, doesn’t it?”

He nods once but says nothing. I wait patiently, like I always do, hoping that maybe he’ll strike a conversation with me today. Instead, he stays silent and begins working on some seedlings.

“Do you remember the greenhouse you built for me when I was little?” I continue, filling the space, “It looked just like this. Well, it was smaller and a little crooked.” A soft laugh escapes me at the memory. “You taught me so much about plants back then. You’re the reason I’m so passionate about them today.”

I wait for him to respond, offering up a silent prayer that he’ll open his heart to me. A few months ago, I wouldn’t have thought to pray in a moment like this. Now it feels as natural as breathing. I don’t expect God to hand me the right answer, but I’m slowly learning I don’t have to carry every burden on my own.

God, please help us to move forward.

Dad’s dark eyes flick to mine for half a second before dropping to the floor. I decide to press on, hoping that maybe something will get him to reach out to me.

“I remember you told me once that you liked plants because they didn’t mind if things weren’t perfect. They only wanted someone to show up and care for them. I’ve always related to them in that way.”

I swallow, the familiar ache pressing against my ribs, the grief of him walking away still raw and present.

“I used to think that the greenhouse was a magical place,” I add, my voice quieter now. “Like if I stayed in there long enough, nothing bad could touch me.”

But sadly, something bad did touch our family. I broke us the moment I forgot the rules and pushed Dad to his limits. If I could go back in time and change what I did, I would in a heartbeat.

He shifts his weight, throat working as if he wants to speak. I hold my breath as the moment stretches until the same silence settles again, seeming heavier this time.

I turn back to the plants, blinking hard at the tears suddenly making their appearance while pretending to be interested in a leaf that doesn’t need my attention. I hate that I still expect more from him. That part of me keeps waiting for him to reach across the distance like he used to.

When he leaves the greenhouse without a word, the pain sharpens. I hate that I don’t know how to bridge us together, and I’m starting to wonder if he even wants to.