Page 24

LENNOX

T he day of my father’s funeral felt surreal, like I was floating outside of myself watching everything unfold. I sat in the front pew of the church, surrounded by my family, yet I felt completely alone. The weight of the day pressed on my chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.

As the pastor spoke about my father’s life, I tried to focus on his words, but my mind kept drifting.

I thought about all the things my dad used to say to me—his advice, his jokes, his warm laugh that could fill a room.

He was the first man to tell me I was strong, the first to tell me I deserved the best in life. And now he was gone.

The sound of my mother’s quiet sobs brought me back to the present. She was holding onto my brother’s arm, her face hidden behind a handkerchief. I reached over and squeezed her hand, trying to offer some comfort, though I felt just as broken.

When it was my turn to speak, I stood on shaky legs and made my way to the podium. The church was packed—friends, extended family, coworkers, and neighbors who had all come to say goodbye. I gripped the sides of the lectern, took a deep breath, and began.

“My dad was everything to me,” I started, my voice trembling. “He was my guide, my protector, my biggest supporter. He taught me how to stand tall, even when life tried to knock me down. He wasn’t perfect—none of us are—but he loved fiercely and deeply, and that’s what I’ll always carry with me.”

I paused, swallowing the lump in my throat as tears blurred my vision. “He used to tell me that family is the most important thing in the world. And looking around this room, I can see how much he meant to all of you. Thank you for being here to honor him. He would’ve been so touched.”

As I stepped down and returned to my seat, the weight of my grief hit me like a tidal wave. The rest of the service passed in a haze, and before I knew it, we were at the cemetery, standing under a gray sky as my father’s casket was lowered into the ground.

I clutched a single white rose, my fingers trembling as I let it fall onto the casket. “Goodbye, Daddy,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “I’ll make you proud.”

Back at my parents’ house, the repast was in full swing.

The living room was filled with the buzz of conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the sound of children playing.

My siblings and I sat together, surrounded by our significant others and extended family.

Everyone was sharing stories about my dad, laughing and crying as they remembered him.

“Remember when Daddy tried to fix the washing machine and flooded the entire laundry room?” Lorna said, laughing through her tears.

“He swore he knew what he was doing,” my brother Lawrence added. “And then he blamed it on the instructions being wrong.”

We all laughed, the sound bittersweet. These were the moments I would hold onto—the laughter, the love, the feeling of being surrounded by people who understood my loss because it was theirs too.

After a while, I needed some air. I slipped out the back door and onto the porch, the cool evening breeze brushing against my skin.

I sat down on the steps, letting the tears I’d been holding back fall freely.

I was so caught up in my emotions that I didn’t hear Sherelle’s car pull up until she called out my name.

“Lennox?”

I turned to see her walking toward me, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a box of desserts in the other. “Sherelle,” I said, wiping my eyes. “You didn’t have to come.”

“Of course I did,” she said, handing me the flowers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. Life be life’ing.”

I hugged her tightly, grateful for her presence. “Thank you.”

We sat on the porch together, a bottle of wine between us. As we sipped, Sherelle asked about the service and how my mom was holding up. I told her about the stories everyone had shared, how much my dad had meant to so many people.

Sherelle sighed, swirling her wine in her glass. “Your dad was a good man, Lennox. He raised an incredible woman.”

Her words brought fresh tears to my eyes, but I managed a small smile. “Thanks.”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics—Sherelle’s new relationship and the drama at her job. But eventually, it circled back to what had been gnawing at me since Omir walked off my porch a few days ago.

“I’ve been thinking about Omir,” I admitted, staring into my wine glass.

Sherelle raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I want to reach out to him,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what I’m expecting, but I feel like I need to say something. Maybe it’s selfish, but I can’t stop thinking about him.”

To my surprise, Sherelle didn’t try to talk me out of it. “So, reach out. What’s stopping you?”

I looked at her, my brow furrowed. “I don’t know. . . Everything? He’s engaged, for one. What if I’m just reopening old wounds?”

Sherelle shrugged. “Or what if it’s the closure you need? Or the start of something new? You won’t know unless you try, Lennox.”

Her words stuck with me long after she left. I sat on the porch, staring at the stars, my mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. Did I have the courage to tell Omir how I really felt? Or was I setting myself up for heartbreak all over again?

I didn’t have the answers, but as I went back inside and climbed into bed, one thing was clear: I couldn’t keep ignoring the pull I felt toward him. I just had to figure out when and how to take that leap.

I lay in the guest room bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, following the lazy turn of the box fan blades as they cut through the still air.

The soft whirring sound did little to soothe the chaos behind my eyes.

My skin felt too hot beneath the sheets, the air too thick, and no position I twisted myself into could bring peace.

I sighed, kicking the blanket down to my ankles and pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. Nothing worked. Sleep wouldn’t come. It hadn’t for nights. And when it did, it never stayed long enough to matter.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him.

Omir.

The way his lips curved when he was amused but trying not to show it. The way his voice dropped when he was serious. The way his energy could fill a room, even when he wasn’t saying much. It was like he’d been stamped onto the backs of my eyelids, showing up every time I blinked.

I turned onto my side, hugging the pillow tighter, breathing deep in hopes it might slow my racing mind. But thoughts of him ran wild—how we ended, how I walked away, how I still felt him in the softest places of my memory.

At some point, the hum of the fan grew distant, the shadows in the room blurred at the edges, and the ache in my chest softened. My limbs got heavier, my breathing slower. I didn’t even realize I was slipping. It just. . . happened.

And suddenly, I was standing in a sunlit room.

Everything was warm. Soft. Like honey melting on my skin. I looked down and saw ivory silk hugging my body in all the right places. I turned, and there he was.

Standing across from me in a cream-colored suit, no tie, shirt open just enough to show that spot on his chest I used to love kissing. His eyes held me steady, full of something too big for words. Something that made my knees weak.

We were saying vows—his voice deep, promising things that made my heart ache. Forever. Partnership. Home. My fingers trembled in his as I repeated them back, my voice smaller, but no less certain.

Then I blinked, and we were somewhere else.

A wraparound porch. A house with chipped white paint and sunflowers stretching tall from the yard.

My back rested against his chest, his hands splayed protectively over my belly—round and full with life.

He whispered something low against my ear that made me laugh, and I turned my face toward his, smiling like there was nothing else in the world but us.

Then came the sharp fluorescent lights of a hospital room. Sweat on my forehead, my fingers gripping his tighter than I meant to. I cried out—pain, power, fear—and his voice steadied me. Told me I was doing amazing. Told me I had this. Told me I wasn’t alone.

And then. . . two babies. Wrapped in soft pink and blue blankets, cradled in my arms like they were carved from the deepest parts of my heart. Omir’s lips pressed to my damp forehead. “You did it, baby,” he whispered, eyes glassy. “You gave us everything.”

The porch again.

It was dusk now. The twins—one boy, one girl—running wild in the grass. Omir stood at the grill, smoke rising into the golden air, laughter rolling from his chest like music. The kind that felt like home. My hand rested on my lap. . . and that was when I saw it.

The ring.

It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t simple or delicate or intentional like I would’ve picked. It was oversized. Flashy. Cold.

It was Anya’s.

My stomach dropped.

And just like that, Omir began to fade—one slow step at a time, his back to me, until the sunlight dimmed and I was left reaching for someone who wasn’t reaching back.

I woke with a jolt. My body shot upright, breath caught in my throat like I’d been drowning. I clutched at my chest, heart pounding against my ribs. The fan buzzed overhead, the room still dark, still.

Reality rushed in, mean and fast. It had been a dream. No porch. No babies. No vows. Just me. The tears came fast. Hot. Heavy. Unstoppable. I buried my face in my hands, my body curling inward like I could somehow protect myself from the ache blooming in my chest.

How could my heart do this to me? How could it dream him into my arms, into my future, just to yank him away? I’d walked away. I knew that. I had my reasons. But none of them felt like enough now. Not when I knew what it could’ve been. What it should’ve been.

I couldn’t just show up and ask him to choose me. Not when he’d already been chosen by someone else. A woman who didn’t run.

I curled into myself, the bed creaking beneath me as my sobs turned to shallow breaths.

My fingertips trembled against my lips, like they remembered the way he used to kiss me when I couldn’t find the words.

Eventually, the tears slowed. My chest still ached, but the weight of exhaustion was too heavy to fight off.

I lay back down, eyes unfocused, throat sore, lashes damp.

My pillow smelled like detergent and distance.

As I drifted again—this time with no dreams—I held onto one truth: I didn’t deserve him. But I would never stop wanting him. Not in this life. Maybe not in the next. Even if it meant crying myself to sleep every night until the feeling faded—if it ever did.