"Ada, I'm so sorry. Yell at me, hit me, whatever you want. Just please don't blame Cliff, okay?"
"I know these past weeks he's been at the hospital for me and not for your dad. But before he passed out, the only name on his lips was yours!"
My whole body went rigid. I ignored the taunt in her voice and kept my tone flat.
"I don't blame you. Take good care of him."
"But Ada, I don't know how to take care of anyone. I'm a sickly thing who can't even lift a finger. How am I supposed to look after him?"
She couldn't lift a finger, no. But she could make Clifford use my father as an excuse to sit with her, right under my nose.
One casual mention of some regret from her, and Clifford would drop my father in a heartbeat.
Which one mattered more had been settled long ago.
Every time Clifford put down his work to come sit with my father, my father would push him to put his career first, would tell me to be more understanding of him. Remembering those scenes made my nose sting.
The joke was on us. He'd played my father and me for fools, and we'd thought him a man of deep feeling and loyalty.
"I'm busy. I don't have time for your games."
"How can you be this cold? No wonder Cliff would rather stay with me than go back and perform the rites for your father!"
I ignored the smugness and hung up. I looked at Brendan.
"Brendan..."
Before I could finish, he said, firm:
"I'll perform the rites for Dad."
I turned my head away and wiped at the tears that came without permission.
Brendan fumbled to get me a tissue.
"Don't cry. He's not worth it. No worthless man is."
I shook my head and gave a bitter smile.
"I'm not crying over him. I'm crying because my father deserved better."
I was with Clifford for eight years, and for eight years he enjoyed my father's care.
Four years of tuition and support through college, an internship arranged at Southport's top firm after graduation. All of it was my father helping him.
Last year he wanted to start his own company. I emptied out every cent of my savings and it still wasn't enough.
It was my father who quietly took out the money he'd set aside for his own funeral, who told him to just go for it, that they'd have his back no matter what.
It wasn't until this last illness, when my father couldn't stop worrying about me, that he used his own regret over having no son to perform the rites to ask Clifford for a single promise.
His vows, and the patience of dropping his work to come to the hospital every day, had put my father and me completely at ease.
It never once occurred to us that all of it was a performance.
And that some promises are nothing but empty checks.
Just like how, year after year, he said he would marry me, and year after year found a different reason to put it off.
The first year after graduation, we were still young, no rush.
The second year, he was busy with work, no time to plan a wedding.
The third year I had everything ready, and he said he wanted to start his company, that he'd make me the envied Mrs. Rowe once he'd made his name.
The fourth year, with my father critically ill, he finally agreed to marry me.
But my father was gone now, and so was my love.
And I finally understood: he never married me for one simple reason. He didn't want to.
The pain of losing my father had left me numb to the loss of Clifford entirely.
Brendan held me for a moment, gently, then turned to go organize the procession.
Someone asked me,
"Ada, where's your fiancé? Without him to perform the rites, we can't move the casket!"
I stepped up to Brendan's side and told them all, calm:
"He isn't coming. From now on, Brendan is my father's son-in-law."
They weren't fools. No one asked anything more.
But the way they looked at me was full of pity and ache.
The funeral ended in a downpour. Soaked through and worn down by grief, I fainted at the cemetery.
Brendan hurried me to the hospital on his back.
After the doctor saw me, Brendan went to pay and pick up the medicine, and I headed for the restroom.
And there I collided with someone.
