Daddy's Girl

My husband and I walked into the house a little after 5. I was exhausted for no apparent reason. Work had been the same as usual I kept busy, but not particularly entertained; spreadsheets are funny like that. Daddy looked like he felt the same… Shoulders slumped, his happy cheeks unusually somber. I asked how his day had been and in an uncharacteristically honest way, he said he had been pretty blah. My heart ached for him. We ate dinner and watched the Olympics before I excused myself to a bubble bath. I lay in Momma’s deep tub and pondered the best solution for everyone. Prior to Mom’s death, Daddy asked us to move in to help care for her. When the time came, it wasn’t a hard decision to make. The week of the funeral, being home with him made more sense than moving back home, especially when he asked me not to. The three of us have settled into a comfortable routine, coffee with Daddy before I get ready for work, dinner and T.V. in the evening and quiet time with my husband when Daddy goes to bed @ 8. He asked me to give him two weeks before I moved out and in a couple of days those two weeks will be up. The first week after her death, he ran from his grief at a break neck pace. He kept busy and wore himself out. This week his energy seems to have drained from him and I know he’s fighting the battle of facing a reality that bites. I have kept my shadows at bay by keeping busy at work and anchoring in the safe harbor of home where I know he’ll be okay as long as he knows he isn’t alone. A tight knot forms in my stomach each time I realize the move must be made and when it is, we won’t be able to live in denial any longer. I can hear my two men talking about the Olympic skiing as I lay on the other side of the door as I blog my thoughts and fears. I’ve enjoyed the last couple of weeks, in spite of the circumstances. I’ve enjoyed thinking I could “fix” what’s broken and I’ve enjoyed being the Daddy’s girl I haven’t been in years. They say time heals all wounds, but losing the love of your life after 57 years isn’t a wound, it’s a gaping hole that’s deeper and wider than the band aide of time can cover. That’s a problem even a Daddy’s girl can’t fix.