Chapter 8 - By the Water’s Edge
The path leading down to the lake wound through a quiet grove of weeping willows, their long green fronds brushing gently against the gravel walkway. The afternoon sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in strokes of amber, violet, and soft rose.
Dad pushed the wheelchair smoothly, his steps unhurried, matching my own pace. Every few yards, he would glance down to make sure the wheels were tracking straight, his expression a mix of lingering guilt and quiet protectiveness.
When we reached the wooden dock that extended out over the glassy, undisturbed surface of the water, Dad locked the wheelchair brakes—the real ones, clicking firmly into place—and sat down on the edge of the wooden planks, letting his legs dangle just above the ripples.
"Are your hands hurting too much?" he asked, looking up at me with concern.
"They sting, but I'll live," I said, resting my palms gingerly on my lap.
Dad let out a long, shuddering breath, running a hand through his hair. "I was a fool," he said quietly, staring out across the water. "I let someone blind me with flashbulbs and promises of an easy, picture-perfect life. I forgot what my real job was. My real job was protecting you."
"You didn't know she was like that," I said, feeling a strange surge of grace for him, even after everything.
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"I should have known," Dad replied, his voice heavy with self-reproach. "When someone shows you who they are, you're supposed to believe them the first time, not make excuses because their shoes match the tablecloth. That stops today. It's just you and me. We're going to fix things, get your ankle healed properly, and rebuild our lives without needing anyone else's script."
I nodded slowly, feeling a deep, settling warmth settle into my chest. For months, our household had felt like a stage production where everyone was acting a part. Now, the stage had burned down, and what was left underneath was real.
