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I sit down heavily, unprepared for how directly August would cut to the core of my turmoil.
“Did you pick her? Is she going to be my new mom?”
“August,” my mother warns, setting down plates. “We talked about this. Your dad can’t tell us who he chose yet. It’s against the rules.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” I say, though it’s anything but okay. How do I explain to my son that I sent home the one woman he connected with? “August, buddy, Brielle was special. But the show is complicated, and sometimes the person who seems right doesn’t end up being the one who gets the final key.”
His face falls slightly, and I feel like the world’s worst father. “So you didn’t pick her?”
“I can’t give you details yet,” I say, unable to outright lie to those earnest eyes. “But I promise you’ll know everything very soon.”
He sighs with the weight of someone three times his age. “Fine. But can I at least show you my Mathnasium trophy? It’shuge.”
Grateful for the change of subject, I nod enthusiastically. “Absolutely. Lead the way.”
As August races off to his bedroom, my mother slides a slice of pie in front of me along with a glass of milk, as if I’m still twelve years old. “Eat,” she says. “Then we’ll talk about what’s really going on with you.”
I take a bite, the flavors of childhood enveloping me in comfort. “What makes you think something’s going on?”
She gives me The Look—the one that saw through every childhood fib about broken windows and missing cookies. “Hayes Daniel Burke, I have known you since the moment you entered this world. Your face has more tells than a bad poker player’s. Now eat your pie while it’s warm, and when August goes to bed, you’re going to tell me why you look like you’ve lost your puppy.”
August returns with his trophy, which is indeed impressively large for a regional elementary school championship. I make appropriate noises of awe and pride, genuinely impressed by his accomplishment but distracted by the anxiety coursing through me. My son chatters about his chess strategies, his new science project, the book he’s reading that’s “way too easy, but the teacher makes everyone read the same thing.” I nod and laugh in the right places, but I can tell he senses my distraction.
“Dad,” he says, setting his trophy aside, “are you okay? For real?”
The directness of the question, the genuine concern in his eyes, breaks something loose in me. I glance at my mother, who nods almost imperceptibly. Permission granted to be honest, at least as honest as I can be without breaching my contract.
“I’m having a tough time, buddy.” I reach out to straighten his always-crooked glasses. “Making big decisions is hard, especially when other people are involved.”
“You mean about who to marry?” he says, with the uncomplicated directness of childhood.
“Yeah. That’s part of it.” I hesitate, trying to find the right words. “The show—it’s not always what it seems like on TV. There are people telling me what to do, suggesting who I should pick. And sometimes what they want isn’t what I want.”
August considers this with the seriousness he usually reserves for chess. “Is that why you look sad?”
I swallow hard, fighting back unexpected tears. When did my son become so perceptive? So wise? “You’re right, Aug. I’m sad because I’m not sure I’m making the right choices.”
“On the show?”
“On the show. And in life.” I take a deep breath. “The truth is, I let someone go who I cared about a lot. And I did it because other people thought it was the right thing to do, not because it’s what I wanted.”
My mother’s hand finds my shoulder, squeezing gently. August’s brow furrows in concentration.
“You mean Brielle?”
“I can’t say specifically,” I say, though it’s clear he already knows.
“Dad,” August says, his voice suddenly taking on that serious tone that makes him sound decades older than nine, “you should pick the woman who makes you laugh like you used to with Mom.” He pauses, then adds, “And the one who’d be the most fun going for ice cream, having dinner, and watching movies with us.”
The simplicity of his advice, the unexpected clarity of his child’s perspective, hits me with the force of revelation. I feel a lump form in my throat, unable to respond.
“August is right,” my mother says softly. “Your father and I didn’t have much in common on paper. An accountant and a dreamer who wanted to take pictures. But we laughed together for ten years before he decided he needed something different.” She pauses, then continues, “And with Sarah—you two fit together from the first moment. You just knew.”
“I thought I knew this time too,” I say, the words coming easier now. “With Brielle. From that first day on the beach, even before the show started filming, there was something there. A connection that felt... real.”
“Then why isn’t she still on the show?” Once again, August cuts straight to the heart of the matter.
I consider my answer carefully. “Because sometimes grown-ups make choices based on what’s safe or what other people expect, not what their heart tells them is right.” I look at my son, really look at him—this miraculous, brilliant, perceptive human being who Sarah and I created together. “But that’s not how I want to live.”