Delaney James seems to have it all-a successful husband, a stylish Manhattan townhouse, and a thriving career in fashion journalism-until it all falls apart. Her husband leaves her, shattering the perfect life she once knew. Heartbroken and desperat...
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"Alright, bud," I say to Hercules, removing his leash and scratching him under his chin. "Go find Grandma."
He scurries away knowing exactly where she is – most likely because he smells the scent of cooked bacon emanating from the kitchen – and I hear her sing-song voice greet him. I hang his leash on the hook by the door and follow him and sure enough, there they both are. My mother is hovering over a rack of ribs, generously seasoning them with dry rub as she gets them ready for the smoker. The ingredients for her homemade brown sugar and bacon baked beans are scattered all over the countertop. Pots and pans are sizzling and boiling away on each burner, and Hercules is sitting patiently next to her, just biding his time until a scrap of food falls on the floor. Or until my mother sneaks him a piece of bacon. Whichever comes first.
"Woah! What the hell is going on in here?" I tease. "You trying to channel your inner Martha Stewart or something?"
"Read the room, you little smartass. I'm doing three things at once and I'm very busy. If you're here to help me, great, if not, you can go outside and make yourself useful. Okay?"
"Yes, ma'am." I hold my hands up in surrender. "Look, it's okay that you become a total fucking spaz when you have to cook for more than just dad."
"Greyson Knox McKinnie! Language!"
I look down at Hercules and wince. "Uh-oh, buddy. She middle-named me. That means we're in trouble."
He prances his front paws and whines, so I open the fridge and grab a couple baby carrots from the produce drawer, feeding them to him.
"Where's dad?"
"Last time I saw him he was in the garage."
"How's he feeling?"
She shrugs and a sad smile turns down the corners of her mouth. "You know how he is. He says he's fine, so we don't worry. God forbid he think about himself for once."
My father is a lot of things. He's intelligent and creative. He's a natural caretaker and an incredible husband and father. My life coach and therapist when I need one. He's the life of the party and a total goofball, but he's also stubborn, and one thing he's not is a martyr. He'll do whatever he can, even lie if he has to, to make sure the people around him remain unaffected.
I lift my hat from my head and run my fingers through my hair. "Stubborn old man."
"Can you actually go help him? It's going to be a long day, and I don't want him exerting himself too much."
"Yeah, sure." I reach for a piece of bacon, wincing when my mother slaps the top of my hand away, and pat my thigh. "Come on, Herc. Let's go find pop."
When I step into my parents' garage my father is nowhere to be found. I expected him to be on a ladder pulling chairs down from the wall, but I can't find him, that is until I see him carrying a large, folding table down the driveway. He's struggling with the weight of it – his hands constantly changing their grip – and my heart aches as I watch him set the table on the ground so he can catch his breath.
