Greensboro. Though not too late to turn around, the trek to visit her father was long overdue. She figured he would want to spend more time than lunch today.
Though Weston Ingram still considered Brooke his little girl, he was tremendously proud of how she’d turned out. They had a special bond that survived life’s phases. Brooke spent her first ten years idolizing him, the next ten despising everything he did and resenting him for ridiculing her dream of working with children—and the rest of the time since, regretting how she had treated him. If anyone could overcome suffering, it was her father. She still called him, “Daddy,” and probably always would. In fact, Brooke enjoyed her father—and didn’t know what she’d do if she ever lost him.
A good number of Brooke’s friends had been raised primarily by their mothers, a reality of society’s divorce rate. None of them had fathers in their lives like Brooke did. Though most people viewed the day Brooke was born as a tragedy, she didn’t. She never knew her mother—never had the chance—yet, she felt her loving presence through her father. Seated on his lap as a child, Brooke enjoyed hearing stories about her mom. She was a radiant woman who selflessly made the ultimate sacrifice. Brooke often wondered what her mother would be like today; how her life would be different if she hadn’t died while giving birth to her.
Brooke realized her daddy must have grieved hard after Mary, his beloved wife and the mother she never knew, died so tragically. She understood the feeling of despair all too well. She wondered if he ever blamed her. If he did, he only let on once. On her sixth birthday, after he tucked her in, she remembered feeling scared. Clutching her blankie, she had wandered into his bedroom and caught him crying. As his eyes met hers, she asked, “What’s wrong Daddy?” He said nothing, then wiped his eyes and said, “Go back to bed sweetie.”
She scrutinized his hands, noticing their wedding picture and the tears smeared across the glass. With a tender voice like a little angel, she asked, “Do you miss Mommy?” He nodded with chin wobbling and trembling lips, unable to speak. After a long pause and another swipe at his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, then said, “I do…but, I love you with all my heart. You’re my princess. You’re as beautiful as she was. Now, go back to bed and dream sweet dreams.”
That night was her earliest memory of her father. She guessed each birthday brought out the same bittersweet emotions. When she spoke of her ritual trips to Tanner’s gravesite, he had a knowing that stemmed from experience. Today, she wanted to talk about moving on, but since he never remarried, she wondered if he ever had.
Brooke merged onto I-85 South heading toward Charlotte. She always dreaded this hour and a half part of the drive. The mundane highway lulled her to sleep. One of the few highlights of I-85 was the Lexington stop. Her mouth watered thinking about the Honey Monk—the world’s greatest BBQ—especially since she skipped breakfast. She said “Not today,” her daddy would kill her if she showed up full.
Brooke dialed his landline. After five rings, voicemail—the ancient kind that played the message out loud on the phone. She left a message as quickly as she could. Most people at this stage could be reached via cell phone. Or, better yet, if they were out, they would forward their landline to their mobile. Not Weston Ingram. The media fear mongers had him convinced that cell phones caused brain tumors. With the ten minutes a month he’d use a cell phone, if cancer struck him, then the entire human race would end in Verizon Armageddon. She didn’t feel like talking now anyway, he’d get the message.
Aside from outdated beliefs about the Japanese and irrational cell phone phobia, her father was a brilliant man. After winning the prestigious Morehead Scholarship and its free ride to UNC—where he met Mary—he
Though Weston Ingram still considered Brooke his little girl, he was tremendously proud of how she’d turned out. They had a special bond that survived life’s phases. Brooke spent her first ten years idolizing him, the next ten despising everything he did and resenting him for ridiculing her dream of working with children—and the rest of the time since, regretting how she had treated him. If anyone could overcome suffering, it was her father. She still called him, “Daddy,” and probably always would. In fact, Brooke enjoyed her father—and didn’t know what she’d do if she ever lost him.
A good number of Brooke’s friends had been raised primarily by their mothers, a reality of society’s divorce rate. None of them had fathers in their lives like Brooke did. Though most people viewed the day Brooke was born as a tragedy, she didn’t. She never knew her mother—never had the chance—yet, she felt her loving presence through her father. Seated on his lap as a child, Brooke enjoyed hearing stories about her mom. She was a radiant woman who selflessly made the ultimate sacrifice. Brooke often wondered what her mother would be like today; how her life would be different if she hadn’t died while giving birth to her.
Brooke realized her daddy must have grieved hard after Mary, his beloved wife and the mother she never knew, died so tragically. She understood the feeling of despair all too well. She wondered if he ever blamed her. If he did, he only let on once. On her sixth birthday, after he tucked her in, she remembered feeling scared. Clutching her blankie, she had wandered into his bedroom and caught him crying. As his eyes met hers, she asked, “What’s wrong Daddy?” He said nothing, then wiped his eyes and said, “Go back to bed sweetie.”
She scrutinized his hands, noticing their wedding picture and the tears smeared across the glass. With a tender voice like a little angel, she asked, “Do you miss Mommy?” He nodded with chin wobbling and trembling lips, unable to speak. After a long pause and another swipe at his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, then said, “I do…but, I love you with all my heart. You’re my princess. You’re as beautiful as she was. Now, go back to bed and dream sweet dreams.”
That night was her earliest memory of her father. She guessed each birthday brought out the same bittersweet emotions. When she spoke of her ritual trips to Tanner’s gravesite, he had a knowing that stemmed from experience. Today, she wanted to talk about moving on, but since he never remarried, she wondered if he ever had.
Brooke merged onto I-85 South heading toward Charlotte. She always dreaded this hour and a half part of the drive. The mundane highway lulled her to sleep. One of the few highlights of I-85 was the Lexington stop. Her mouth watered thinking about the Honey Monk—the world’s greatest BBQ—especially since she skipped breakfast. She said “Not today,” her daddy would kill her if she showed up full.
Brooke dialed his landline. After five rings, voicemail—the ancient kind that played the message out loud on the phone. She left a message as quickly as she could. Most people at this stage could be reached via cell phone. Or, better yet, if they were out, they would forward their landline to their mobile. Not Weston Ingram. The media fear mongers had him convinced that cell phones caused brain tumors. With the ten minutes a month he’d use a cell phone, if cancer struck him, then the entire human race would end in Verizon Armageddon. She didn’t feel like talking now anyway, he’d get the message.
Aside from outdated beliefs about the Japanese and irrational cell phone phobia, her father was a brilliant man. After winning the prestigious Morehead Scholarship and its free ride to UNC—where he met Mary—he
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