“A man always needs to go directly to the source and say what needs to be said. Even if it’s hard,” I remind him.
“Love you, Grandpa Joel. I have to go.”
“Yeah, love you, too.”
A weight presses against my chest the moment I hang up the phone. I turn to my three-thousand square foot, ranch style home and am reluctant to go inside.
This is how it starts.
First, the oldest gets busy with work obligations or relationships that make him choose which family to split his time with, and soon enough you’re spending your entire holiday season alone.
I tilt my head toward the sky.
“I’ve tried my best,” I tell Gina, my dead wife. “I did my best to keep my promise.”
Maybe my best isn’t enough.
Instead of going in through the front door, I decide to do a look around the house to see if any hedges need to be cut or trimmed before I begin preparing to decorate next week.
As I do my walk about, I remind myself that although Aiden can’t come home, the remaining five grandkids and all three of my boys and their wives will be here.
We’ll have a full house, though that still won’t completely fill the void of Aiden’s absence.
The lump of muscle in the center of my chest always knows when even one of us is missing.
As I contemplate next week’s menu, a loud thump from my neighbor’s house catches my attention.
I’m reminded of the beautiful woman who moved in six months ago.
The most striking, and tension-filled conversation I had with her took place just last week. All I did was make a simple inquiry about her plans to decorate for the holidays, to which she replied that she had no intention of decorating at all.
Not for any of the holidays.
When I politely reminded her of the neighborhood’s annual house decorating competition, she doubled down, all but telling me to mind my damned business.
“Help!”
A scream from a partially opened window rips me out of thinking about holiday decorations.
“Help! Someone, please!”
I take off running, absent-mindedly placing my hat on my head, and phone in the pocket of my jeans to free my hands. I sprint over to her front door, but when I try the handle, it doesn’t budge.
The door’s locked.
“Hey, you in there?” I call as I pound on the wooden portion of the mostly glass door.
“Help me!” I hear again.
In a split decision, I ram my shoulder into the door.
The door gives, but not completely. It takes two more shoulder shoves before I breach the entryway and make it in the house.
“Where are you? Call out!” I yell, looking around from the living room to the kitchen and seeing those rooms empty.
The house is only one level which means her screams must be coming from the back of the house.
“Back here. Help, please!” The urgency and fear in her voice claws at the insides of my chest.
