Chapter 3 - The Hayes Homestead
My father's house sat on five acres outside of Cedar Falls, an old farmhouse surrounded by towering silver maples and neat gravel drives. It was the house where Dean, Marcus, and I had grown up; the house where my mother had lived until cancer took her six years ago.
When Dad cut the engine in the driveway, the absolute stillness of the country washed over me. No humming highway, no suburban lawnmowers, and no Lorraine.
"Dean, take Maisie," Dad commanded quietly. "Marcus, help your sister. Slow and easy."
Marcus took my hands, guiding me out of the cab. My abdominal muscles felt completely shredded, burning with an intense, tearing fire from the strain of walking. By the time I shuffled across the wraparound porch and through the kitchen door, I was shaking violently.
"Right into the downstairs guest room," Dad said.
They had already prepared it. The room off the kitchen—which had once been my mother's sewing room—had been transformed. The queen bed had fresh, crisp cotton sheets turned down, flanked by a fortress of soft pillows. A bassinet sat beside the mattress, dressed in pale yellow blankets. On the nightstand sat a pitcher of water, a glass with a bendable straw, a box of breast pads, and my pain medication that Dean had retrieved from our bathroom counter.
Marcus helped me sit on the edge of the mattress. As soon as my weight was off my feet, the dam broke.
A ragged, choking sob tore out of my throat. I doubled over as much as my staples would allow, burying my face in my hands. The physical agony, the bone-deep exhaustion, and the humiliating betrayal of the last hour crashed down on me in a torrential wave.
"Oh, sweetheart," Dad murmured. He sat beside me, wrapping one heavy arm around my trembling shoulders, pulling my head gently against his flannel shirt. "You're safe now. You're home."
"I was gone... four days, Dad," I choked out, tears soaking through his sleeve. "I had our baby. And he looked at me like I was a broken appliance that wouldn't make him a sandwich."
"Graham is a fool," Dad said, his voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion. "Your mother used to say some men are born with a spine, and some spend their whole lives looking for someone else to carry them. Graham let his mother do his thinking for thirty years. He wasn't ready to be a father, because he's still a child."
Dean walked into the room carrying Maisie, who was sleeping peacefully, completely oblivious to the earthquake that had just fractured her parents' marriage. He laid her gently into the bassinet beside the bed.
"She didn't even wake up on the ride over," Dean said softly, smiling down at his niece. "She's a tough one, Nat. Just like her mama."
"Drink this," Marcus said, walking in from the kitchen with a mug of steaming chicken broth. "Aunt Clara dropped off four quarts yesterday when she heard you were having a rough delivery. It's real broth, not out of a carton."
I managed a weak nod, taking the warm mug between my shaking hands. The salty, rich steam helped clear my clogged throat.
While I sipped, my phone began to vibrate violently against the nightstand.
*Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.*
Dean picked it up and glanced at the screen. "It's Graham. He's called six times since we left the subdivision."
"Let me see," I said.
Dean handed it over. Alongside the missed calls were four frantic text messages:
*Natalie, please pick up. Mom didn't mean it the way it sounded. She's just high-strung.*
*You can't just take my daughter. That's parental kidnapping. We need to talk about this rationally.*
*I'm trying to protect our marriage here, Nat. Your dad had no right to humiliate me on my own porch.*
*Call me. Now.*
I stared at the glowing letters. *Mom didn't mean it. She's just high-strung. Your dad had no right to humiliate me.*
Not a single word asking if my incision had opened. Not a single word asking if Maisie was eating. Not an apology for demanding that I cook four days after major surgery. Even now, his only concern was his wounded pride and his mother's bruised ego.
"Turn it off, Dean," I said, handing the phone back to my brother.
Dean didn't hesitate. He held down the power button until the screen went dark, then set it face down on the dresser across the room.
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"Get some sleep, Nat," Marcus said, gently pulling the heavy quilt over my legs. "We'll be right out in the kitchen. If Maisie so much as sneezes, one of us will be in here to lift her for you."
For the first time since my water broke five days ago, my shoulders dropped. Surrounded by the scent of cedar, old timber, and my family's quiet vigilance, I closed my eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
