"Verena, your father wants to have dinner with you if you have time," said Sarah, my longtime best friend and secretary.
"Uh, yes, I should. I only have Mrs. Winston today."
"Did the rest cancel? I thought you had three today ?"
"Yes, I did, but the Aberdeens, Moores, and Florises had dinner together at the Roseville. Mrs. Winston usually has me cook one meal.
"Is that the old lady whose husband passed away last year?
"Yes. She's been trying to see the positive, but it's been hard. There are days when she won't eat, and other days she'll devour her meals.
"Poor thing. I will notify your father, then.
"Thank you." As soon as Sarah left, I began to prepare the ingredients I needed to cook. Although I have been a private chef for a while, there are days when I run out of ideas.
Today is one of those days. What makes it harder is when a client has certain allergies (sometimes they are allergic to life itself, given how limited their ingredients can be).
After searching the internet for a bit, I decided to take the easy way out and make chicken soup. Mrs. Winston usually doesn't complain about what I cook, as long as she gets to share her dinner with her old beagle.
Mr. Bagel, the beagle, welcomed me at the door with a happy bark. He usually does this when he wants a treat. After giving him a few treats and belly rubs I began to cook.
"Oh, hello dear. How's dinner coming along?
"Hello Gladys, it's coming along well. Would you like your usual drink, or would you like me to prepare something else?
"Oh, don't worry about the drink. The doctor said I need to cut down on sugar, so I'll be drinking water tonight.
"Ah, I see. Well then, dinner will be done shortly."
"Is everything good?" I asked, knowing well what her answer would be.
"Yes, everything is fine as usual," she replied with a big smile. Before leaving, I made sure she took her medicine.
With over an hour left, I quickly went home to shower and get ready. Father doesn't like it when I smell like food. Not because it makes him sick, but because he will then have me make his favorite meal, which he cannot have. Allergies? No, not at all; this man will devour a whole plate until the buttons on his shirt are straining.
"Verena, my daughter, I'm so glad to see you," said my father with a smile, holding his arms out for a hug.
"Hello, Dad," I replied, giving in to his bear hug.
After ordering food, we continued our conversation from last time.
"So?" asked my father, locking his hands and placing them under his chin.
"So what?" I asked, taking a sip of my drink. I know what he wants to know, and the answer is still no.
"Verena your are the only daughter of mine. I want grandchildren, I want to see a small version of you running around making a mess."
"So I can clean up said mess?"
"Exactly," he replied sarcastically.
"Dad, I'm focused on my career. My business is doing well—in fact, it's doing amazingly. This past year alone, I managed to get five new clients.
"I know, sweetheart. I'm not trying to rush your life, but I remember how much you talked about having a family, how you wished to have children. And all that went out the window when Omar passed away—"
"Dad- It's hard to move on. Everything I wanted in life was with him. I didn't get a chance to enjoy him before the universe took him away from me. "
"It's been two years; nonetheless, you need to move on. That's what he would have wanted."
"That's what I want to believe-"
"But it's hard. When your mother passed, I lost everything. You know how hard I fell; you saw my struggles. I thought I wasn't ready to marry again until I did. Do I love my new wife? Yes, but I will always hold your mom very close to my heart."
After talking and laughing, we went our separate ways. I know he means no harm, but it hurts when he brings up Omar. Not only was he my fiancé, but he was also my longtime best friend.
We went through life together. I was there when his grandparents passed, and he was there when my mom passed.
I was at a client's house when I got the call. Frantically, I left the client's house, not in the right frame of mind. Arriving at the hospital, I was informed about the accident he was involved in; a drunk driver hit his car near the Atlantic Bridge.
I was with him for only a few hours, talking about our lives, our wedding, and our children.
"I wanted to wait for the right moment, but I guess this is it. I'm six weeks pregnant."
"*sobbing* "Are you serious?" he asked, trying so hard to hide the pain. We continued talking about the baby until his last breath."
The day of his funeral I had a miscarriage. From then loving someone new has become hard. No one else knew about the baby, it's a secret I've held behind doors.
Healing is a slow, tender process, like a gentle rain nourishing parched earth. Each day brings a new landscape, sometimes bathed in sunlight, sometimes shrouded in mist.
I caught a glimpse of his gorgeous face in the corner, smiling at me. I sometimes smell his cologne, a very distinct scent of sweet dreams. I know he is with me, but I will never forget the day I lost everything.