Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
"Alright, bud," I say to Hercules, unclipping his leash and scratching under his chin. "Go find Grandma."
He bolts toward the kitchen, no doubt lured by familiarity and the smell of bacon. Sure enough, I hear my mom's sing-song greeting, and when I follow, he's already stationed at her feet. She's leaning over a rack of ribs, rubbing them down for the smoker. Ingredients for her brown sugar and bacon baked beans are scattered across the counter, while pots and pans hiss and bubble on every burner. Hercules sits patiently, waiting for either a scrap to hit the floor or my mom to sneak him a piece of bacon.
"Woah! Martha Stewart would be appalled," I tease.
"Read the room, smartass. I'm doing three things at once. If you're here to help, great. If not, go outside and make yourself useful."
"Yes, ma'am." I hold up my hands in surrender. "You know it's fine that you turn into a fucking spaz whenever you're cooking for more than just Dad."
"Greyson Knox McKinnie! Language!"
I glance down at Hercules and wince. "Uh-oh, buddy. She middle-named me. We're in trouble."
He paws the floor and whines, so I toss him a couple baby carrots from the fridge.
"Where's Dad?" I ask.
"Garage, last I saw."
"How's he feeling?"
She shrugs, the corners of her mouth pulling into a sad smile. "You know him. Says he's fine so we don't worry. God forbid he think about himself for once."
My dad is a lot of things—brilliant, creative, the life of the party, and the best husband and father I could imagine. He's also stubborn as hell. If it means protecting the people he loves, he'll hide the truth, even lie about how he feels.
I pull off my cap and run a hand through my hair. "Stubborn old man."
"Can you go help him?" Mom asks. "It's going to be a long day, and I don't want him overdoing it."
"Sure." I reach for a piece of bacon, yelping when my mom slaps my hand, and pat my thigh. "Come on, Herc. Let's go find Pop."
The garage is empty, but when I glance outside, I spot him halfway down the driveway, struggling with a folding table. His grip shifts constantly, his arms trembling until he finally sets it down to catch his breath.
"Dad, stop!" I shout, rushing toward him. "Let me help."
"I'm fine, kiddo. It just... slipped from my grip."
It's a lie, and we both know it. He believes it, or maybe he just wants to. But I can see the truth—he's weaker than he's ever been.
When I was little, my dad was a superhero. Stronger than Batman, braver than Superman, tougher than Ironman. No one measured up. But now? Now his hands shake. He's easily winded, always tired, his frame thinner, frailer than I ever thought possible. Sometimes I'm scared to touch him, afraid I'll leave a bruise.
