Small Acts
Every Anniversary

The Wedding Date

August 25, 2026 · Part 9 of 10 · 2 min

There's no version of this conversation I've rehearsed, even after twenty-four years of rehearsing everything else.

"Heart," I say finally. "Weakened valve, from twenty-two years of smoke I probably shouldn't have breathed as much of as I did. Cardiologist's been telling me to slow down for three years. I finally listened enough to get diagnosed properly two months ago."

"Two months ago," Marlowe repeats. "And you were still going to sit in a truck across the street in the rain and not tell anyone."

"That was the plan," I admit. "I figured — if this year's visit went the way every other year went, quiet, no contact, I'd just... stop coming eventually. Let the ritual end on its own terms instead of making it about me getting sick. Didn't seem fair to hand you a father and a diagnosis in the same breath."

"That wasn't your call to make," Marlowe says, and there's real anger in it now, but underneath the anger is something rawer. "You don't get to disappear quietly. Not again. Not after I spent three years looking for you."

Corinne, of all people, is the one who speaks next. "She's right, Corwin. Twenty-four years of watching from a truck was already too many."

I don't know what to say to either of them, so I don't say anything.

Marlowe pulls her chair closer to the table instead, and when she speaks again her voice has steadied, gone almost businesslike, which somehow scares me more than the anger did.

"I'm getting married in December," she says. "December twelfth. I hadn't told my mother yet either, so surprise, I guess, to both of you at once."

Corinne's hand goes to her chest.

"I don't have anyone to walk me down the aisle," Marlowe continues, looking straight at me now. "My dad passed six years ago. I always figured I'd just walk myself. But I'm not planning around your funeral, Corwin. I'm planning around your recovery. So you're going to see a specialist my fiancé's mother works with, and you're going to be standing at the end of that aisle in December, and that's not a request."

Before I can answer, before I can even find the right shape for an answer, a phone buzzes on the counter — not Corinne's this time. Mine, forgotten in my jacket since before I got out of the truck.

The screen lights up with a name I haven't seen in twenty-four years.

Renae.

Continue the story Part 10: Sunday Dinner →

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