The Resurrection of Wildflowers (Wildflower, #2)

by Micalea Smeltzer

Looking back, I know I made the decision I thought I had to. Was it the best choice? In hindsight, probably not, but life is a series of choices and at the time you don’t always know whether it’s good or bad. You just do what you can with the information you have.

“Why don’t you hate me?” He cocks his head to the side, eyes narrowed. “Why do you hate yourself?”

“Did you ever stop to think that you’re not the villain either? Sometimes relationships aren’t built to last and there is no bad guy. It’s just two people who weren’t meant to be.” “No.” I shake my head. “I didn’t.” “I don’t blame you for the divorce, Salem. I know you love me even now, but sometimes that’s not enough and I get it.

“I just don’t know how to live life without her. She’s our mom. What am I going to do when I can’t pick up the phone and call her? Ask her for advice or what ingredient I’m forgetting in the cupcakes I’m making?” I hold her arms gently in my hands, making sure to look her in the eyes. “You’ll feel sad. You might cry a little bit. And then you’ll call me, and we can cry together. And I’ll always tell you what ingredient you’re missing.”

You are the best seven years of my thirty-seven years of existence on this planet. You made me a dad. I thought for a while that I stopped being one when you died, but I realize now you don’t stop being a parent just because your child is gone. No matter what, I’ll always be your dad,

“It means, I want to have more babies with you. I want to go on vacations with you. I want to cook meals in this kitchen and do stupid mundane shit like clean the fucking house together. I want your clothes with mine in the fucking laundry. I want to laugh and cry together. I want to hold you every night when you sleep. I want to kiss you goodnight and good morning. I want to make love to you slow and fuck you hard. I want to sit out on the front porch and rock on the swing. I want, not only to grow old with you, but to live life with you. I want it all.”

“You want me to live with you?” He nods. “Like share the same bed? My hair clogging your shower, clothes on the floor, my crap taking over yours—that kind of live together?”

But if she had the confidence of wildflowers, then I was the resurrection of wildflowers. My soul withered with the death of my son. I was lost and that version of myself was gone forever. But I came back—I came back and now I’ll grow and thrive alongside her.

I question whether I’ll even be able to make a go of all this, but the only true failure is in not trying.