Peace I Never Made

“Alright.” Deep breath. “Okay.” Another one. “I can do this,” I whisper to myself.

When Mia was born, I remember holding her in the hospital, and somehow my first thought was how I’d never be able to give her away at her wedding. No man can take care of her as well as I can. At least eighteen years before that would happen, but my stupid brain was processing it as early as possible. Now I know that’s selfish and unrealistic, and I’ve made my peace with it.

Now I haven’t seen her in thirteen years, and I’m not even the one giving her away. So, I was wrong on both counts. Not that she ever needed me to take care of her. She was more independent at thirteen than I was at thirty. Never learning why she took her mom’s side after the divorce used to gut me every day, but I’ve made my peace with it.

“Don’t make it weird.” The bingo card for my daughter’s wedding didn’t have ‘Dad chickens out and can’t even go inside the venue’ on it, so that means it’s not an option for me. Receiving an invitation surprised me, and I drove four hours to reach this venue in the middle of nowhere. There’s no backing out now.

My tie is still crooked, and I can’t get the damn thing straight to save my life. Maybe it’s just the angle. The visor of my car needs a perfect angle for the mirror to show me the correct reflection. Hopefully, it looks fine. Even if it doesn’t, I won’t be in any pictures today. Finally gathering enough courage, I open the door and step out of my car. The warm July air fogs my glasses, which are used to the cold air from the car.

After the fog clears, I make my way toward the soft, warm lighting and gentle music controlling the ambience of the venue. The usher at the door looks familiar, but I don’t know him. When he sees me, there’s a microsecond of recognition, followed by another of shock, before he smiles and looks at me like I’m actually supposed to be here. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about this, but I decide on appreciative. He doesn’t ask for my name, but hands me a folded program and holds the door open. I take the program and nod my appreciation, walking through the door to an assault on the senses.

The lights and sounds inside the venue are stunningly different from those outside. Round, ceiling-mounted lights inside are much less warm in tone, making me feel like I’m surrounded by spotlights, and the music is more upbeat, but instead of feeling like dancing, I feel like hiding. There’s a lump in my throat that won’t go away, no matter how many times I swallow. Raspberry-scented candles burn in the center of a dozen round tables, each with seats for four. It’s HOT in here.

I scan the room for the best seat, preferably something unobtrusive with a clean sightline to an exit. I choose a spot and walk toward the table, but don’t make it far before a voice calls out from behind me.

“Hal, I think you’re up on table two.” I stop, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath. I grew up loving that voice. She lived two houses down from us on Pebble Street for my entire life. I was in love with her before I could read. She changed my life thirteen years ago, but I’ve made my peace with it.

I grew up loving that voice, but hearing it now sends a chill down my spine. I slowly turn to face the mother of my child and ex-wife. Objectively, she looks beautiful, but nobody is beautiful when you feel nothing but resentment for them.

“Carol,” I say as she approaches me. “Been a long time.”

“Yes, it has.” She says, helping herself to my tie. “Thirteen years you’ve been gone. I don’t think you want your new first impression to be with a tie that’s not straight.” She pats my chest gently, having finished straightening the tie.

“Thanks,” I whisper, but I don’t mean for it to be a whisper. Carol lingers longer than necessary, smoothing a crease on my shoulder that probably wasn’t there. That’s the kind of thing she used to do when she was proud of me. No clue what it means now.

“Mia knows you’re here. She’ll come to you when she’s ready.” Carol isn’t looking at me when she says this. I’m not sure what to do with it, so I just nod. “Table two.” She squeezes my arm once, then disappears back to the area she came from. I stand there for a second, breathing in the lingering perfume. It’s the same one she’s worn for years.

Table two is close to the front, closer than I’d like, and definitely closer than I deserve. I sit down anyway and study the program. The paper is thick and cream-colored, the kind that probably costs more per sheet than a trip to the car wash.

I open it and see my full name – Harold Gene Oakman – listed as the father of the bride. My full name hasn’t been together on a document since I signed the divorce papers. I look at the ceiling for a second and take a deep breath, but that becomes even more difficult when I see a wall of pictures a few yards away. When I walk up to it, there are photos from a decade of memories she made without me.

Birthday parties. Vacations. School plays. As I continue down the rows of pictures, I realize they’re in chronological order. I skip ahead and find one of her sitting on the hood of my old Ford. The green one I sold years ago. She’s squinting against the sunlight and grinning at something off-camera. She can’t be older than five or six in this picture. I’m standing next to her, laughing at something she said. I can tell it was a genuine laugh by the look in my eyes. Those same eyes now cannot hold in the moisture dying to escape.

I don’t know who took this photo. Hell, I don’t remember it being taken. But she framed it and hung it on the wall. And more. There are more with me! The three of us were on my tiny aluminum boat on the lake. Opening presents on a random Christmas. One shows Mia at thirteen, holding the envelope I sent, staring at the mailbox with slumped shoulders. So many more, and I can’t stop the flood. I thought I made my peace with it.

I told myself on the drive here that she only invited me out of obligation. She didn’t really want me to be here, and honestly, that made it easier for me to get through it. To justify the trip. I’m not sure that’s the case anymore.

I find my way back to table two before anyone can see my face. Fifteen minutes later, the ceremony starts, and I watch my daughter walk down the aisle on the arm of her uncle–Carol’s brother, someone we used to fish with–and she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. She doesn’t look at me, and I don’t blame her. Her smile is the same smile she had on the hood of that Ford all those years ago. I look at the ceiling again, but it doesn’t help. I choke, and a few people around me shoot angry glares at me before realizing.

They’ve written their own vows. His are funny at the beginning, then serious. Hers are just serious. She talks about choosing people on purpose, every single day, even when it’s hard. Especially when they give you reasons not to. It hurts. Every word makes it a little harder to breathe.

Nobody comes to get me for pictures.

The reception opens, and I get through the first hour on autopilot. The steak looks amazing, but I can’t eat it. I try to sip the champagne, but it's the same. The maid of honor taps her glass. She’s about Mia’s age, with dark hair and a wide smile. She talks about meeting Mia in college and the person Mia is. “Mia is the kind of person who remembers your birthday, sure… but she also remembers all the small things.”

I reach for my water glass.

“There is literally,” she says, laughing, “a shoebox of every card and letter she’s ever received. I’ve seen it, it’s chronologically organized.”

The room laughs, but I don’t.

Thoughts of the letter I wrote to her the year of the divorce come to mind… the one where I told her she was just like her mother, and I was done fighting for someone who had already chosen sides. It was two in the morning, and I was drinking something I shouldn’t have been. I meant the words I said, in the moment, but I regretted every bit of it before sunrise. I mailed it anyway, telling myself that to do anything else wouldn’t be honest. It was the start of a long string of lies I told myself, like the one where I thought I made my peace with it.

The maid of honor raises her glass, and the room raises theirs. My hand isn’t steady, so I skip the raise and drink, sitting with what I’ve learned today. I watch the reception unfold around me. At one point, I’m watching her from across the room, laughing at something her husband said, throwing her head back, completely caught up in the moment. I know I’m staring, but I can’t stop. She built all of this without me.

She glances over and finds me watching. One second, maybe two. Her expression never shifts. No smile. Nothing hardens. She sees me seeing her. She doesn’t look away angry, just turns back to her husband. I taught her that. I taught her how to continue without me, and she learned it so well, it’s second nature. I wipe my eyes.

Standing, I grab my coat from the back of my chair.

Outside, the air has cooled enough to feel like a different day. When I get to my car, I turn and survey the area one last time. When I reach into my pocket for the keys, I find the program instead. I find my name. Harold Gene Oakman – father of the bride. The same name I signed on the papers the day I told her I was finished. My knees grow weak.

I open the door, sit down, and close it again.

An hour later the engine turns over, carrying me back to the empty house I chose over her.