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...
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Dinner at my parents' house has quietly become part of my routine.
Most evenings, after work, I stop by to check on my dad whether he asks me to or not. Some nights he manages to finish most of what my mom puts in front of him. Other nights she spend more time encouraging him to take another bite than she does eating her own food.
Tonight falls somewhere in the middle.
He picks at the grilled chicken and roasted potatoes my mother made before eventually setting his fork down, claiming he's full. The sautéed spinach Delaney sent over is the only thing he finishes, and when my mom catches my eyes from across the kitchen, she gives me the smallest nod. It's a silent acknowledgement that we'll count it as a win, because lately we've learned to celebrate anything that feels remotely positive.
After I load the dishwasher and carry the leftovers to the refrigerator, I join my parents in the den. The television hums quietly with a baseball game neither of them seems to be paying much attention to. My dad sits in his favorite recliner with a blanket draped across his legs, studying me with the kind of expression that tells me he's been turning something over in his mind for a while.
"I just don't understand."
I already know where this is going.
It's been almost two weeks since I turned down the coaching job with the Chicago Cubs, and despite my best efforts to convince them otherwise, neither of my parents has accepted my decision.
"You miss baseball," my dad says. "This is a chance to have it back in your life."
His voice sounds as steady as ever, but the illness has changed him in ways that are impossible to ignore. The flannel shirt he used to fill out now hangs a little looser across his shoulders, and his wedding band shifts against his finger every time he adjusts his grip on the arm of the chair.
Some days I can almost convince myself he's not sick. Other days, the reminders seem to find me no matter where I look.
"We're just surprised you turned it down," my mother says quietly. "That's all."
I lower myself into the recliner across from them and rest my forearms on my knees.
"I don't know what to tell you." My dad waits patiently. "It's just not the right fit for me."
The words aren't exactly a lie. They're just missing most of the story.
If someone had asked me five years ago what my dream coaching job looked like, I would have described the one the Cubs offered me.
I've known their manager for years. He caught for Chicago my rookie season, and because our teams played each other often enough, we've stayed in touch over the years. Two of my close friends are still on the roster, I know the city well, and I'd be walking into an organization that wants my opinion instead of expecting me to fall in line behind someone else's philosophy.
