Look away.
Start again.
That evening, he had already said my name twice and then changed his mind.
So I waited.
Finally he asked:
“Can I do Dad’s job?”
My hand stopped halfway toward my coffee.
“What job?”
He frowned as though I were being deliberately difficult.
“At your wedding.”
“I know.”
“What job?”
“The walking.”
He pointed vaguely forward.
“The middle part.”
“The aisle?”
“Yes.”
Then he straightened.
“Can I walk you?”
For eleven months, I had avoided that question.
Who would walk me down the aisle at Cedarbrook Chapel?
My father had been supposed to do it.
Of course he had.
From the time I was a little girl, Dad joked that someday he would walk me slowly enough down the aisle to give my future husband one last chance to run.
Then, eleven months before my wedding, he died.
Suddenly.
One ordinary Tuesday morning.
There was no long illness.
No goodbye carefully prepared.
One phone call, and the person who had always been part of the picture simply wasn’t there anymore.
For months, whenever anyone asked about the processional, I changed the subject.
My mother offered to walk me.
An uncle volunteered.
Adrian told me I could walk alone if that felt right.
Nothing felt right.
Every option seemed to emphasize the same absence.
Dad wasn’t there.
Then Ethan asked.
I stared at him.
He became nervous.
“I can walk slow.”
My eyes filled.
He misunderstood immediately.
“I practiced walking slow before.”
“What?”
“With Dad.”
I covered my mouth.
Ethan nodded as though this were completely normal information.
“A long time ago.”
“When?”
He shrugged.
“Before you met Adrian.”
I laughed through tears.
“That was years ago.”
“I know.”
Apparently, Dad had once told Ethan that when I eventually got married, he would need Ethan nearby to make sure Dad did not trip.
Ethan had remembered.
Dad had probably forgotten the conversation by dinner.
But Ethan remembered everything connected to the people he loved.
Saturdays with Dad were sacred.
The garage door would open at eight in the morning.
Dad would make coffee.
Ethan drank hot chocolate from the exact same old mug every weekend because he claimed coffee “smelled like burnt dirt.”
They changed oil together.
Fixed lawn equipment.
Organized tools.
Usually badly.
Dad taught Ethan to replace air filters, sharpen mower blades, and make grilled cheese without burning the bread.
Ethan taught Dad every line from at least six superhero movies and repeatedly beat him at bowling.
When Dad died, Ethan stopped going into the garage for almost two months.
Nobody forced him.
Then one Saturday morning, my mother heard the garage door open.
Ethan was inside.
Sitting on Dad’s stool.
Holding the old hot-chocolate mug.
He stayed there for an hour.
That was how he grieved.
Quietly.
By returning to places.
Now he was asking to stand in Dad’s place.
I reached across the table.
“Yes.”
Ethan stared.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
