HENRY’S LIVING ROOM looks like it’s straight out of a Christmas card. Amber lighting fills the space as the soft crackling of the fireplace overtakes my senses. The smell of the Christmas trees takes me back to my childhood, when every public space would be filled with the scent of evergreens from Thanksgiving onward. The couches are huge and pillowy soft. I mean, they’d need to be to accommodate Henry and his sister, Sarah.

She’s like a model; I look like I’m 2 inches tall next to her. And she’s still in high school!

I look over at Henry, whose leg is bobbing up and down feverishly in a fit of anxiety. I realize how difficult this must be for him, with this being his first time back since his father died.

I can’t even imagine what he’s feeling right now.

“Henry? I’m so happy to see you, pookie! What are you doing here so late?”

A strikingly beautiful older woman enters the room from the hallway that Henry's sister had disappeared down. Her golden blonde hair is styled neatly in voluminous, hair-sprayed curls – even now, at nearly three in the morning. Her face is bright and free of makeup, with soft lines curving around the edges of her warm, blue eyes. She is tall, though not as tall as her daughter, and I can’t help but think about how stunning she must have been when she was younger, long before she had two kids, a beautiful house, and a husband taken too soon.

Behind her follows a large and burly figure with a warmth in his eyes that contrasts his imposing frame. A graying beard shrouds his softened facial features, and he smiles at the two of us from behind Henry’s mother. Henry doesn’t smile back, or even acknowledge his presence.

“Hello, Mom. This is Georgia.”

Henry’s voice is stern and low, as if he’s speaking to a stranger instead of his own mother. I wave shyly at both her and Donald, suddenly aware that I’ve practically intruded into a stranger’s home after midnight. Even if she is Henry’s mom, I’ve still never met her or her husband.

“Oh, hello.” She smiles warmly in my direction, though I can sense the tension in her words.

“Well, where are my manners?” she asks aloud, almost in a whisper. “I’m Lisa, Lisa Anderson. And this is my husband, Donald Perkins.”

She reaches out a gentle hand towards mine, and I shake it without much confidence.

“Can we get you both some water, or food? I made the most wonderful pasta last night–”

“No, Mom. I’m here to talk to you about the note you left. That’s it, and then we’ll be gone.”

“Go easy on her, Henry.” Sarah’s voice echoes through the room as she leans against the living room wall, listening intently.

I’m an intruder in an extremely personal moment. Is it bad if I run outside, maybe hide in the car? God, I should’ve thought this through.

A tight smile is plastered across my lips in an attempt to suggest that I’m merely an innocent bystander. It doesn’t matter if it’s working – no one’s looking in my direction.

“Well, if that’s what you want, pookie, we can talk about the note. Did you get my flowers, too?”

“How could I not?” Henry retorts, his tone sarcastic and grating.

I’ve never seen him this agitated.

Donald chimes in, his voice soft and raspy, and accentuated by a deep drawl that curls along each vowel.

“We thought you’d like them, sport. Your mother knows you’ve been upset with her, but she wanted to celebrate your win–”

“She said my dad would be proud of me.”

The room is quiet after he speaks, with only the snapping of the fire breaking the silence.

“Because he would be, Henry,” Donald continues. “What you did tonight… well, that’s exactly the kind of captain your father and I always wanted you to be.”

“First of all, Donald, don't you dare speak for my father. Second of all, there’s no way in hell I'm still captain. Not after I kept the team from playing–”

“You did?” Sarah presses, sauntering into the center of the living room from her place near the darkened hallway.

“Yeah,” he replies, turning towards her. “That moron Watson – and Coach – kept trying to mess with Georgia’s newspaper at TU. She’s worked on it for years. I convinced the team not to play until Coach reinstated the Tribune. Watson was pissed. He didn’t want to stand with the team.”

Henry takes a deep sigh, collapsing into the overstuffed cushions of the couch.

“When it was time to score the winning goal,” he continues, looking down at his twiddling thumbs, “I knew I had to teach Watson a lesson about teamwork. I let him score, so he’d see how important it is to work together. I doubt it worked. And I doubt Coach will ever get over me defying him.”

“Doesn’t matter if it worked, Henry. You had good intentions. That’s what matters.”Sarah smiles softly at her brother, though the look in her eyes seems melancholy and far away. I realize it’s the exact same look Henry gets when he talks about his dad.

Henry shrugs and directs his attention back to Donald and his mother, quickly changing the subject back to his distaste for their actions.

“When I read your note, Mom, it hit me. It hit me that you have no idea just how much damage you’ve caused to our family. This was our version of a team, and–”

“Henry, that’s not fair–”

“It is fair! How could you think you could speak for my father? The man who taught me everything I know – who died of cancer in this room! You were off begging for his best friend’s attention before he was even in the ground, and now you think you can tell me what he’d think of me? Why would I care what you think he’d say? You betrayed us.”

“Henry–” Sarah starts but is immediately interrupted.

“No, Sarah, I’ve held this back long enough. You’re an adult now, and you deserve to know how selfish of a person Mom is. She never even gave him a funeral!”

Henry’s eyes are welled with tears as he speaks, his leg furiously bobbing up and down in anxiety. I wrap my arm tightly around his, rubbing my palm against his bicep firmly in an attempt to calm him.

“Henry, that’s enough,” Donald interjects, his tone stern. “Please let your mother speak.”

Lisa straightens her shoulders and levels her gaze with Henry’s. Her eyes are brimming with moisture, though her expression is stoic – as if she’s trying very hard to keep herself from breaking down in front of her children.

“I never wanted it to get to this point,” she whispers, a shaky sigh escaping her.

“What are you talking about, Mom? Of course it got to this point, you cheated–”

“That’s just it, sweetheart,” Lisa says, an exasperated chuckle escaping her lips as she shrugs. “I am not the one who cheated.”

Henry raises a furrowed eyebrow at her, his expression unconvinced.

He thinks she’s lying.

“Henry… your father had been cheating on me for about 15 years before he died. Probably even before then. There were many things I loved about your father, but his loyalty to me was not one of them.”

Henry scoffs, shaking his head defensively.

“No–”

“Just listen to her, Henry.” Sarah’s voice is tender and sympathetic, her gaze soft.

“It started with Donald’s ex-wife, Terry, when you were very young…”

Lisa’s words dissipate, her expression uncertain. But when Donald places a hand gently on hers, his features soft and encouraging, she continues.

“At least, that was the first one I learned about. It was after my birthday dinner, when all the neighbors came over to celebrate, and I caught them in the guest room… um, in a compromising position.”

“What?” Henry’s voice breaks slightly, as if from shock.

“He never knew that I saw. I caught them many times over the years. In her backyard, in the car, even out at a restaurant when we were celebrating your grandparents’ anniversary. There were a few other women, too, but Mrs. Perkins was the most consistent… I’m so sorry, Henry.”

Donald nods, continuing the explanation in his own words.

“Your mother and I were there for each other for many years, sport,” Donald rasps, his voice gentle. “We both loved your father, but he and I both knew what he had done was unforgiveable. I loved your family like my own. I wanted to give your mother everything I thought she deserved through all of those years of hurt.”

Henry is silent, his jaw clenched tight and cheeks burning crimson. I glance down at his balled fists, with knuckles white from tension.

“Henry, sweetheart–”

“No, Mom,” he quips, interrupting her attempt to comfort him.

Henry lets out a deep sigh as he runs a hand anxiously through the front of his hair, combing it out of his stoic face. He continues to speak, his voice low and grave.

“I mean, Jesus… Dad was my hero my entire life.”

Lisa’s face warms, a soft smile curving at the edge of her lips.

“Oh, pookie. He can still be your hero. He was an incredible father to you both. He loved you so much. He did everything he could for the two of you. He deserved to be your hero.”

Henry shakes his head as a single tear streams down his reddened cheek.

“No. Not with how he treated you, Mom. I mean, fuck–”

His eyes well with tears, brimming over the edge before spilling down his cheeks. He cries silently, refusing to acknowledge the moisture streaming down his face. I grab hold of his hand, saying nothing, and instantly feel the muscles in his arm relax at my touch.

I love him.

Lisa sighs quietly and adjusts her position within the plaid chair, hesitating for a moment before parting her lips softly to speak.

“Our relationship was our own, Henry. We were two adults who made our own decisions… I decided to stay with him, to care for him when he was sick–”

“You shouldn’t have–”

“And then I decided to move on. Too quickly, some might say. Either way, my relationship with your father should not define your relationship with him, honey. That’s why I never told you the truth. As far as I’m concerned, James Anderson was a hero as a dad. And that’s all that should matter when you remember him.”

She folds her hands gently in her lap and shoots a glance over to Henry’s sister, who is sitting opposite to us in a simple armchair. Sarah nods at her mother approvingly – supportively – and Lisa appears to relax when she does so.

“Mom, I’m so sorry.”

Henry’s face is sunken with regret, and I squeeze his hand gently. His eyes meet mine when I do, softly and vulnerably, and my heartbeat quickens at his glance.

“Don’t be sorry, pookie,” Lisa replies, drawing my attention back into reality. “You had no way of knowing. I never intended for you to… but, in a weird way, I’m glad it’s out in the open.”

“Have you known this whole time?” Henry asks, directing his gaze towards his sister.

She shakes her head, her long blonde hair falling behind her shoulders as she does it.

“No. I only found out a few months ago. Mom and Donald sat me down when I found a random stack of letters from Mrs. Perkins in Dad’s office. They were love letters.”

A look of disgust shrouds Sarah’s features. “I was furious and confused, and, well, Mom told me the truth then.”

Henry nods his head, and I can tell he’s struggling to find something to say.

Who would know what to do in this situation? He’s spent years ignoring his mother, looking out for his sister. All for nothing.

“Pookie, would it be alright if I hugged you?”Lisa's voice is sing-songy and gentle, full of hope that he’ll say yes.

And he does.

“I’m so sorry, Mom,” Henry reiterates, his voice muffled by tufts of her golden curls as she holds him.

“Don’t say sorry, Henry. I just hope you can forgive me for not telling you sooner.”

He nods at her, affirming that he has, and gives his sister a quick hug, too.

“Don’t be strangers anymore, please,” Sarah whispers, flickering her gaze between the two of us.

Henry smiles at her warmly. “We won’t.”

He pauses for a moment then, his expression composed. Standing directly in front of Donald, who matches him in height and sturdiness of frame, Henry says nothing as the tension in the room grows.

I can't decipher what he's feeling right now. Is it anger? Hurt?

Several seconds pass, and I briefly worry that Henry is going to start yelling, directing all his pain at Donald after years of confusion and anguish.

Then, without a word, Henry envelopes him in a firm embrace.

As they hold one another, arms wrapped tight across the other's back, I can just barely make out the tears brimming along the edge of Donald’s eyes as he sighs in relief.

“Thank you for taking care of my Mom,” Henry whispers to him as they part, his voice gravelly with emotion.

Donald smiles. "It's been my honor, sport."

Henry nods in his direction once more, a silent acknowledgement of forgiveness, before stepping towards the entryway of the home and entwining my hand with his.

“Well, it's getting late,” Henry comments, his speech groggy from exhaustion. “We should probably start heading back.”

And with one step over the threshold of the door and one more round of friendly goodbyes, the cool night envelopes us in its comforting silence.

“I’m so proud of you,” I whisper as the soft glow of streetlamps shimmers across the shadows on my face.

We’re cruising down the highway now, about halfway between Henry’s mother’s house and University Station. His truck is quiet and steady as we speed along the empty road, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking.

“Proud of me? For what reason?” He shoots a half-smile at me from his place in the driver’s seat, his thumb grazing the edge of my hand as he holds it.

“For sticking up for yourself… and for being so willing to forgive them.”

Henry’s hand squeezes mine as his eyes remain fixed on the open road. His expression is soft, relaxed – as if thousands of pounds of weight were lifted off of his shoulders tonight.

“Georgia?” he asks, his voice is warm and vulnerable as it breaks the comfortable silence.

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

My cheeks blush and, instantly, my mind races with memories from the past year.

Six months ago, I hated Henry Anderson more than anything. I despised him for hitting my boyfriend, for meddling in my life, for choosing Natalia over me – or so I thought. How did I get here? How did I get so lucky?

“Henry?” I reply, unable to hold back a smile.

“Yes?”

“I love you most.”