Dad and I walk side by side, the sound of gravel crunching under our boots filling the quiet between us. The late afternoon sun casts a warm, golden light over the fields, and there’s a soft breeze carrying the scent of earth and hay. We don’t usually walk like this—just the two of us. It feels strange, like I’m waiting for something to happen, but neither of us knows what.
I glance over at him. His face is calm, lined from years of preaching and working the land, his hair starting to gray at the temples. He doesn’t seem angry anymore, not like he was when I first told him about Sloane. But there’s still a weight between us, something unspoken hanging in the air.
We walk until we reach the old oak tree at the edge of the field. It’s the one Dad planted when I was born, the one that’s always been my tree. Each of my siblings has one, too, scattered around the farm. This one’s a little crooked, leaning slightly to the right, but it’s taller than I am now, its branches stretching out wide, casting long shadows over the grass.
Dad stops in front of it and rests a hand on the trunk. He doesn’t say anything for a while, just looks up at the leaves swaying gently in the breeze. I stand beside him, shoving my hands in my pockets, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on me again.
“I don’t even know if I’m gonna be good with kids,” I blurt out, breaking the silence. My voice is shaky, and I hate how unsure I sound. “I mean… how am I supposed to take care of two babies when I can barely keep myself together most days?”
Dad turns to look at me, his eyes soft but steady. “Zig, you’re already good with kids.”
I shake my head, staring down at the dirt. “I help out with Eve sometimes, sure, but that’s different. I can walk away when I need to, when I feel like everything’s closing in. This… this is different. I can’t just step out when it gets too hard.”
“You won’t be alone,” Dad says quietly. “Sloane will be there, and so will we. You’ve got a family, Zig. And you’ve got time to learn.”
I sigh, running a hand through my messy red hair. “But what if I’m not stable enough for this? You know how I get, Dad. What if I screw this up? What if—”
“Ezekiel,” Dad interrupts, his voice firm but gentle. “You’ve made excellent progress these last few years. You’ve been taking your medications, going to therapy, working hard. You’ve gotten so much better at soothing yourself, at knowing when things are too much.”
I nod, but I still feel that familiar pit in my stomach, the doubt gnawing at me. “But I haven’t had a meltdown in a while because things have been calm. What happens when the stress hits? What happens when I can’t sleep ‘cause the babies are crying all night, or when I lose it in front of them?”
Dad takes a deep breath and looks up at the tree again, his fingers tracing the rough bark. “You’ve grown, Zig. You’ve gotten stronger. We haven’t had to go to the hospital in a couple of years. Remember when that wasn’t the case? You were struggling, but you didn’t give up. You kept fighting, and you’ve come a long way.”
I swallow hard, trying to push back the lump in my throat. He’s right. A few years ago, I was in and out of the hospital, my moods swinging so wildly I didn’t know which way was up half the time. The highs felt too high, like I was invincible, and the lows…well, they nearly took me out. But I fought through it, with Dad’s help, with Mom’s patience, and the meds, and therapy. I’ve gotten better, but I’m not perfect. I’m still scared.
“I know it’s a lot,” Dad says softly, turning to face me now. “But you’ve faced challenges before, and you’ve come through them stronger. You’re not the same boy you were a few years ago. You’re more stable now, even if you don’t feel it all the time.”
I blink hard, feeling tears start to build behind my eyes. I don’t want him to see me cry—not again. I’ve cried enough today. But the words hit me deep because I’ve always been afraid I wouldn’t be enough, that no matter how much better I got, I’d still be broken somehow.
“What if I can’t be a good dad?” I whisper, barely able to get the words out. “What if I let them down?”
Dad reaches out and rests a hand on my shoulder. His grip is firm, grounding me, pulling me back from the edge of the spiral. “Zig, you’ve already proven you’re capable of more than you think. You’ve faced your own battles, and you’ve won. Raising kids won’t be easy, but no one expects you to be perfect. You’ll make mistakes, just like every parent does. But you’ll love those babies. And that’s what matters most.”
I swallow hard, trying to hold it together. I glance at the tree again, the one Dad planted when I was just a baby. It’s grown, crooked but strong, weathered but still standing. I take a deep breath and nod, even though the fear’s still there, gnawing at me. Maybe it always will be. But hearing Dad say that—he believes I can do this—it feels like a lifeline.
“I’ll try,” I say, my voice rough with emotion. “I’ll try my best.”
“That’s all you need to do,” Dad says, his voice soft but steady. “And we’ll be here to help you every step of the way. You’re not alone, Zig. You’ve never been alone.”
I nod, blinking away the last of the tears. For the first time today, I feel a flicker of something that isn’t fear—maybe it’s hope, or maybe it’s just knowing that I’ve got people in my corner, no matter what.
We stand there for a few more moments, watching the tree sway gently in the breeze, the branches stretching toward the sky, just like me—trying to grow.
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