Labyrinth of Shadows

The mirror didn't hold back any secrets, its reflective surface revealing every wrinkle and every sprout of witchy white hair atop my head. I suppose I should count my blessings that they preferred the top of my head to my chin. No matter how many miracle products I tried, those hairs just refused to behave. Plucking them is a never-ending battle, with each one replaced by two more. At 43, I figured it was easier to embrace the aging process than to fight it. It's just a reminder of how fast time is passing us by. This past year had been a whirlwind, between the stresses of work, juggling family life with the kids and hubby, and trying to be present for Dad, it's no wonder I'm starting to feel like I am rapidly aging.

In just a week, Dad would undergo his final chemo treatment, and the guilt for not being by his side weighed heavily on my heart, suffocating me. The snow-dusted pine in our backyard reminded me that December was upon us. The twinkling lights, holiday decorations, and dancing blow-ups in my neighbor's yard were a stark reminder of the holiday season in full swing. I should have been brimming with joy, especially since it marked our first Christmas in our new home, a precious moment with all my children gathered under one roof. Yet, amidst the cinnamon-scented air and half-decorated tree in our living room, lingered a bittersweet awareness that this might be one of our last Christmases together in this house. Maggie and her boyfriend were taking big steps toward moving in together, and Jamie's high school graduation loomed closer, a reminder of how swiftly time was passing. My chest ached with the anxiety that one day we would no longer be a whole unit. It was inevitable, we raised our children to live their lives but inside it felt like a spasm of loss.

Christmas remained one of my favorite times of the year, filled with Christmas Spirit and cherished memories that breathed life into our home. The homemade angel made from my children's young handprints pulled me into the memories of baking cookies, wrapping presents, shopping, and hiding Buddy the Elf. All the special memories I built with my kids to overcome my shadowed childhood. As a child, holidays were overshadowed by strict religious ceremonies and the pressure to be the picture-perfect child, a facade to make my father proud in front of his congregation with the endless stream of Christmas guests. Presents were not something to be coveted but rather rushed and swiftly put away to get ready for our audience. My skin itched as the memories of the velvet Christmas dresses rubbing against my skin haunted me. I was looking forward to the traditions we had built with the kids. Christmas PJ's and a family game on Christmas Eve, and all day in our PJ's on Christmas day. The sweet buttery flavors of French toast casserole swarmed my tongue. Which reminded me to add butter to the shopping list.

I grew up in the shadow of my father's devout faith, a Pastor deeply entrenched in his born-again Christianity, which served as his refuge from a past marked by alcoholism. Unable to satisfy his addictive cravings with alcohol, he turned instead to the solace of the Bible. His approach to life was extreme, an all-or-nothing mentality that demanded nothing less than everything. Under the guise of Ephesians 6:1-3, "Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. ‘Honor your father and mother..." my childhood was shaped by the relentless pressure to obey and honor, to stifle any dissent against my father's authority. I was constantly reminded of my shortcomings, subjected to emotional berating for anything less than perfection. My father's unfulfilled dreams and regrets became the benchmarks for my achievements—his lack of high school graduation meant my brother and I had to excel. His troubled youth led to strict rules preventing us from venturing outside the doctrine.

I rebelled in the quiet spaces they never thought to check. Behind locked bathroom doors, I'd stare at stolen pills in my palm, the weight of my father's disappointment crushing harder than any substance ever could. On the nights when breathing felt impossible, I'd trace the contours of those capsules with my fingertip, wondering if silence might be kinder than this suffocating perfection. When I finally ran away at sixteen, they dragged me back. On the morning of my eighteenth birthday, I placed my basket of clothes in the backseat of Mom's car. She drove me to my new home in silence.

Daniel's family welcomed me with quiet understanding, and in their creaky spare bedroom, I finally learned how to exhale. I never looked back, though the scars of those years still ripple beneath my skin. My boyfriend, now my husband, was my refuge in the darkness of those times. My parents divorced soon after, and I was a spectator to the turmoil and emotional destruction of my brother. My mom repeated the same imbalanced pattern with another husband and boyfriends, while my father slowly lost his faith and slumped back into the bottle.

Years had passed, I had fought my way to heal the scars and here we stood, watching Dad stumble toward what the doctors called "the finish line." Cancer, or clinically known as ALK non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. I'd practiced pronouncing it for weeks, as if naming the monster might give me some power over it. Each time the nurses hooked up those bags of chemo, I watched it drain away pieces of him. My father, once a bear of a man, now folded in on himself like tissue paper left in the rain. His shoulders, where I'd perched to see above crowds as a child, were now sharp enough to cut glass. During my last visit, I'd glimpsed that familiar misty shadow circling him—but beneath it, a stubborn thread of light still pulsed, telling me our race wasn't finished yet.

My chest tightened as we inched toward the finish line—that magical "last treatment" day we'd circled in red on the calendar. I'd catch myself daydreaming about him ringing that survivor's bell, about Dad's smile returning to its full wattage, only to have my stomach clench the next moment. Because after chemo came radiation. Another mountain. Another chance for his body to surrender. At night, I'd wake gasping, my lungs forgetting how to work, just like his were starting to.

The vibrations of my cell phone pierced through the silence, shattering my thoughts. I retrieved it from my purse, greeted by Daniel's smile. His features, weathered by the sun and etched with laughter lines, a face that could still steady me after all these years. He had been my North Star through twenty-five years of storms and sunshine. "Sarah!" Daniel's voice rocketed through the phone, his breath heavy as if he had been running. No "Babe," no "Sunshine"—none of the dozen pet names he'd collected for me over the years. Just my name, stripped bare, the way he'd said it the night Jamie broke her arm falling from that tree, and I knew before he spoke another word that something was wrong.

"W-What's wrong? Is it Dad?" I managed in the middle of my racing thoughts.

"He's back in the hospital," Daniel's voice continued with concern, "He fell again and is urinating blood."

A sharp intake of breath caught in my throat, but before it reached the depths of my lungs, I forced it back out, the weight of the news pressing down on me like a suffocating blanket. We were three days away from Christmas. We had not finished decorating or shopping. The girls and I had plans tomorrow. Daniel and I had our traditional shopping day and lunch date planned.

Where was my brother? Why couldn't he be there?

Was I expected to be at the hospital? Do I have to go?

"Sarah, Sarah........are you there?" Daniels' voice rang across the piece of plastic and metal near my ear.

"I'm sorry! I-I have to go and call the hospital. I love you." I pushed the red end button. Standing in the kitchen of our home, I became a spectator of the beautiful life Daniel and I had built together. Everything we promised to be and everything we swore to erase and not to be. How could I protect that and take care of my dad? The anxiety of the decisions before me was crippling. Leaning with my head against the coolness of the granite countertop, I prayed that it would just be over. Was this wishing for death? or remission? I wasn't sure.

"Please, Lord, give me closure. My heart is fractured between the life I have always wanted and worked so hard to build and the souls of the past. I don't know how to handle this or what to do."

The tears splashed, blending with the grey, black, and blue flecks of stone. My stomach clenched, threatening to expel the coffee I had already downed, its bittersweet taste rising in the back of my throat. I was being dragged back into the turmoil of my childhood. I had to be the one who took care of everything. I had to be the one who stepped in and made everything right. Was I just supposed to leave him alone in the hospital? The thought a weight on my back pushing me deeper down this dark tunnel.

Why did I have to leave my family on Christmas to take care of him? Was I still chasing being the perfect daughter at the expense of my own life?

If I didn't would I be able to live with myself? What if this was my last Christmas with my dad?

Three hours later, I found myself staring out the oval window at clouds that seemed both impossibly far and suffocatingly close. My wedding ring caught the sunlight as I twisted it anxiously around my finger. Daniel's voice echoed in my head—understanding but hollow with disappointment when I'd told him I had to go. The children's faces flashed before me, their Christmas morning now fractured by my absence.

The plane was not flying fast enough, as my heart raced with the thought that I would not make it in time. Yet as we soared between worlds—between the life I'd built and the past I'd fled—something shifted beneath my ribs. The same intuition that had shown me death's shadow around my father now whispered something different: this journey wasn't about reaching him before time ran out. It was about reaching the parts of myself I'd left behind in that house, under that steeple. I closed my eyes and let the vibration of the engines rattle through me, breaking loose the last chains of that perfect, obedient daughter. Whatever waited at the end of this flight—reconciliation or goodbye—I would meet it not as my father's disappointment, but as the woman who had survived him, forgiven him, and somehow, impossibly, still loved him."