Discarded Devotion

Sloanes gallery was celebrating its anniversary. My deaf-mute father took three Greyhound buses to get there, wearing a borrowed old suit with sleeves too short, sticking out among the elites.

When he saw Sloane, his eyes lit up. He shakily unwrapped a faded flannel bundle and a mason jar of pungent homemade relish. Inside was a hand-carved wooden comb. He gestured clumsily: This brings safety. You have a weak stomach, so I made this spicy relish to help you eat.

Sloane frowned and stepped back. I have important clients. You being here is inappropriate. She signaled her assistant with a look of disgust. Get a trash bag. Throw those in the basement. The smell is awful.

Dads hands froze midair. He tugged his jacket hem and retreated into a corner. My heart ached sharply.

Just then, Sloanes first love, Paul, walked in. Her scowl vanished into a radiant smile. Paul, I secured that two-million-dollar vintage Patek Philippe pocket watch. Your father will love it.

Paul waved it off. You went out of your way for his little hobby. Sloane smiled softly. As long as hes happy, its worth it.

In the corner, Dad stared, eyes bloodshot. He signed to me: Im useless. I couldnt bring her anything good. I embarrassed you.

Looking at his hunched back, I knew. This marriage, built on my humiliation and her contempt, was finally over.

I stopped Gwen in her tracks.

"I will take those. Don't touch them."

Gwen glanced at me, then back at Sloane, hesitating.

Sloane had her back to me, laughing with Paul. Her voice wasn't loud, but every word was crystal clear.

"That antique sterling silver tea set for your dad arrives next week. I will deliver it to him personally."

Paul leaned against the display pedestal, looking as comfortable as if he owned the place.

"You spoil him too much. He stared at that last tea service you got him for an entire week."

Sloane laughed.

It was a genuine, effortless laugh. A laugh I hadn't seen in a very long time.

I bent down and picked up the mason jar and the wooden comb from the floor.

The jar wasn't big. My dad had fermented the relish in an old crock last autumn. He wrapped the lid in three layers of cling wrap and double-bagged it in plastic.

He was terrified the smell would leak out.

But it leaked anyway.

I turned around to find him.

He wasn't in the corner anymore.

I found him in the back stairwell of the gallery.

He was crouching on the concrete steps, hands folded over his knees, head bowed.

Sensing someone approaching, he shot up immediately.

He signed to me. "It's fine. It's too crowded in there. Dad just came out for some fresh air."

The short sleeves of his borrowed suit rode up, exposing the jagged scar on his wrist from an old bandsaw accident.

I handed the mason jar back to him.

Panic flashed in his eyes.

He signed. "She didn't like it?"

"She is just busy today," I said. "I will give it to her later."

He believed me. He hugged the jar back to his chest.

Then he dug into his pocket and handed me a crumpled piece of paper.

It was his bus tickets.

Three of them. From our rural county to the transit hub, from the hub to the city, and from the city down here.

The earliest ticket had a departure time of 4:00 AM.

I didn't say a word. I just folded the tickets and slipped them into my own pocket.

When I brought him back out to the gallery, the anniversary event was in full swing.

Sloane stood in the center of the exhibition hall, surrounded by a crowd of wealthy patrons.

Paul stood right at her right hand, adjusting the microphone stand for her.

There was barely any space between them.

When Paul leaned down to whisper something, his lips practically brushed her ear.

Sloane didn't pull away.

I led my dad through the side entrance and found a spot against the wall.

There were no chairs left.

A staff member gave me a passing glance before turning back to work.

My dad just stood there.

He shifted the mason jar to his left arm. His right hand hung at his side, his calloused fingers nervously pinching the seam of his trousers.

He couldn't hear a single word being said on stage, but his eyes never left Sloane.

Someone walked up to the stage and handed her a bouquet.

It was Paul. A massive arrangement of white lisianthus.

Sloane took it, smiling brightly as she thanked him.

Camera flashes lit up the room.

My dad tugged at my sleeve and signed. "Your wife is incredible."

He smiled. He smiled so hard his wrinkles bunched together, revealing a chipped front tooth.

I nodded.

"Yeah. She really is."

I didn't tell him that the man handing her the flowers was her first love.

I didn't tell him that Sloane gladly spent two million dollars on an antique watch to impress Paul's father.

And I didn't tell him that she couldn't even be bothered to unwrap the flannel cloth to look at the comb he spent three months carving.

During the intermission, Sloane arranged a catered reception.

The long tables were lined with exquisite pastries, artisan coffee, and delicate macarons.

My dad stood in front of the table, staring at the spread for a long time without reaching for anything.

He didn't recognize a single item.

Eventually, he just took a paper cup of plain water, retreated to his corner, and drank it slowly.

I went over and grabbed two slices of cake for him.

He shook his head and signed. "Too expensive. You eat it."

I forced the plate into his hands.

Only then did he take a tiny bite, chewing it with agonizing slowness.

Paul's parents arrived.

I knew exactly who they were.

His father dealt in high-end antiques and owned three massive showrooms upstate.

His mother was a retired fine arts professor from an Ivy League university.

The moment they walked in, Sloane practically flew over to greet them.

She linked her arm through Paul's mother's arm, her tone dripping with affection. "Mary, you mentioned wanting to see that post-impressionist landscape. I kept it off the market specifically for you today."

Mary patted her hand with a warm smile. "You always know exactly how to spoil us, dear."

Sloane turned and snapped her fingers at Gwen.

"Go switch the tea in the VIP lounge to the Darjeeling first flush Mary loves. And serve it in the Wedgwood fine bone china."

Gwen jogged off to get it done.

Paul's father walked through the gallery with his hands clasped behind his back, nodding in approval.

"Sloane, the curation this year is leaps and bounds ahead of the last."

Sloane beamed. "I owe it all to your guidance, Arthur."

Paul stood nearby with his hands in his pockets, his expression neutral.

But his eyes never left Sloane.

I looked over at my dad.

He was watching Sloane chat with Paul's family.

He couldn't read lips. He had no idea what they were talking about.

But he could read the expression on Sloane's face.

The smile she gave Paul's parents was radiant and entirely genuine.

Half an hour ago, she hadn't even looked him in the eye.

He slowly placed his cake down on the windowsill and didn't touch it again.

I walked over to him.

He signed. "Your wife is busy. Let's not get in her way."

His gestures were slower than usual.

It was like he had to second-guess every movement before he made it.

"Dad, are you hungry?" I asked. "Let me take you out to get some real food."

He shook his head.

Then he looked down at his scuffed cloth shoes, and glanced at the polished leather wingtips and designer heels walking around the room.

He pulled his feet further back under his chair.

Right then, Gwen walked by carrying a tray of fresh fruit for Paul's parents.

As she passed my dad, she caught a whiff of the mason jar in his hands.

She visibly wrinkled her nose and practically sprinted away.

My dad noticed.

He immediately hid the jar behind his back and lowered his head to sniff his own shirt.

Then he did something that made my heart physically stop.

He shoved the mason jar into the dark corner of the stairwell and covered it with his borrowed suit jacket.

He was terrified the smell would offend someone.

I stared at that jacket, a heavy lump forming in my throat.

He had specifically borrowed that suit from old man Henderson back in our village just for today.

Henderson was a size bigger than him. The sleeves were too short, and the shoulders sagged.

But before he left the house, he had spent twenty minutes staring at himself in the mirror, looking so proud.

And now, he had stripped it off to hide a jar of relish.

Left wearing nothing but a faded, pill-covered gray crewneck in a room full of bespoke suits and evening gowns, he looked even more tragically out of place.

Paul walked over with a glass of red wine and gave me a passing glance.

He knew who I was.

Or rather, he knew I was Sloane's husband.

But he never went out of his way to speak to me.

He walked right up to Sloane and casually draped his arm over the back of her chair.

Sloane didn't pull away.

My dad stared at that hand, then looked at me, his face tight with anxiety.

He signed. "Who is that man?"

"A business partner," I said.

He nodded and didn't ask anything else.

But his eyes stayed glued to Paul's hand for a very long time.

Sloane stood up to greet a new wave of guests, passing right by us.

My dad scrambled to stand up straight.

He raised his hand, wanting to wave hello.

Just as his hand went up... Sloane's phone rang.

She answered it without breaking her stride, walking right past him.

My dad's hand hovered in the air for a second before he slowly let it drop.

He smiled to himself.

Nobody saw that smile.

Nobody except me.

Before the second half of the event started, I went to the restroom.

On my way back, I passed the VIP lounge. The door was cracked open.

Sloane was sitting inside, directly across from Paul's mother.

Mary pulled a velvet jewelry box from her purse and slid it across the table.

"You mentioned you loved raw emeralds the other day. I had my jeweler set this pendant aside for you. It isn't much, but I hope you like it."

Sloane opened the box and gasped softly.

"Mary, this is way too expensive."

"Take it." Mary patted her hand. "I see you as my own daughter. Don't be so polite with me."

Sloane lowered her head, her voice dropping to a soft murmur.

"You are always so good to me, Mary."

Mary smiled and helped her close the box.

"I won't push you about the situation with Paul. But you need to figure out what you truly want."

Sloane didn't say a word.

She didn't deny it, either.

I stood in the hallway, my fingers pressed white against the doorframe. I didn't push it open.

I knew exactly what Mary meant.

And I knew exactly what Sloane's two seconds of silence meant.

I turned around and walked back to the exhibition hall.

My dad wasn't in his corner anymore.

I searched the entire floor before finally finding him down in the basement storage room.

He was crouching on the dusty concrete floor. He had opened the plastic bag holding the wooden comb.

He couldn't hear my footsteps.

I stood behind him, watching him huddle among the discarded cardboard boxes, frantically rubbing his thumb over a wooden comb nobody wanted.

I knelt down beside him.

He jumped, startled, and quickly hid the comb behind his back.

Then he flashed me a nervous smile and signed. "Dad was looking for the bathroom. Got lost."

He was terrified I would see how pathetic he felt.

He had spent his whole life being terrified of exactly that.

I reached out and gently pulled the comb from his hand.

The wood was carved with a delicate, winding lotus pattern. Right in the center of the lotus was a tiny word.

Peace.

He signed. "The carving is ugly. It's normal that your wife doesn't like it."

I gripped the comb so tight my knuckles turned white.

He signed again. "When I get back, Dad will carve a much better one. With better wood."

He actually thought the problem was his craftsmanship.

I helped him to his feet.

His legs had gone numb from crouching. He stumbled and threw a hand against the wall to catch his balance.

The basement wall was coated in thick dust.

He left a dirty handprint on the paint. He yanked his hand back in a panic and desperately wiped it on his trousers.

I led him back upstairs.

As we passed the main entrance, we ran straight into Sloane walking Mary out.

Mary held Sloane's hands, smiling warmly. "Come to the house for dinner next week. I will make that beef bourguignon you love."

Sloane nodded brightly. "I will be there. I will bring Arthur's favorite tea."

They stood arm in arm, looking exactly like a mother and daughter.

My dad watched them. He looked down at his own dust-covered hands.

He hid his hands behind his back.

Then he signed a single sentence to me.

He signed. "Your wife is a good person. She is so respectful to her elders."

The anniversary event finally ended, and the guests slowly filtered out.

My dad started helping the staff stack chairs.

He carried seven or eight heavy folding chairs at a time, stacking them with more care than any of the paid employees.

A young staffer shot him a weird look and whispered to her coworker.

"Who is that guy?"

"I think it's the boss's husband's dad."

"The deaf guy?"

They didn't speak loudly, but I heard every word.

My dad couldn't hear a thing.

He just kept carrying chairs.

Sloane was at the reception desk, saying goodbye to Paul.

"I'm heading out," Paul said. "My old man is taking us out to dinner tonight. I'll swing by and pick you up."

"Sounds perfect," Sloane replied.

He left.

The gallery finally grew quiet.

Sloane finally seemed to notice my dad.

She walked over. Her tone was slightly more polite than before, but only barely.

"Dad, you came all this way without giving us a heads-up. I could have arranged something."

My dad quickly dropped the chairs he was holding and rubbed his calloused hands together nervously.

He looked at me to translate.

"He said he didn't want to cause any trouble," I said. "He wanted to surprise you."

Sloane gave a tight smile and didn't respond to that.

She looked at me.

"Arthur is hosting a dinner for us tonight. Take your dad somewhere nearby to grab a quick bite."

Grab a quick bite.

"Can't we all go together?" I asked.

Sloane shot me a warning look.

"Arthur booked a private chef's tasting menu. It's eight hundred a plate, and he only reserved four seats."

She paused.

"Besides, look at your dad. It wouldn't be appropriate for him to be there."

My dad saw the tension in our faces. He grew frantic and signed to me. "What is she saying?"

"She said she has a business dinner tonight, and she wants me to take you out for something really delicious."

My dad looked visibly relieved and nodded enthusiastically.

He signed. "Of course, of course. Your wife is an important woman. We shouldn't get in her way."

Sloane grabbed her designer purse, ready to leave.

As she walked past the front desk, she remembered something and turned to Gwen.

"Those two things I told you to throw away. Did you handle it?"

Gwen hesitated. "Dean took them."

Sloane glanced at me. She didn't say another word, just pushed the glass door open and stepped out.

The moment the door swung shut, I saw Paul's sleek Mercedes parked out front.

He stepped out and opened the passenger door for her.

The gesture was so fluid, so natural. Like he had done it a thousand times.

My dad stood behind the glass door and saw it too.

He looked at Paul, and then he looked at me.

He lowered his head and stood in silence for a very long time.

Finally, he signed a single sentence.

"Treat her better. Don't let someone else steal her away."

I didn't answer him.

That night, I took him to a small diner for a bowl of beef stew.

After he finished, he signed to me. "I'll leave first thing in the morning. I don't want to cause any more trouble."

"There's no rush," I said.

He shook his head. "It's time to go. If I stay too long, your wife will be upset."

When we got back to the apartment, I told him to take the guest bedroom.

He flat-out refused and insisted on sleeping on the couch.

He said the bedsheets were too white, and he was terrified of getting them dirty.

I pulled the wooden comb and the mason jar out of my backpack.

There was a faded piece of paper taped to the jar. He barely knew how to read or write, so he had asked the elementary school teacher back in the village to write it for him.

It read: Daughter-in-law, the relish is freshly fermented. I added two scoops of salt so it won't spoil. Good for the stomach.

Right beneath that was a line of crooked, barely legible handwriting. You could tell he had written it himself.

Just two words.

Our family.

I carefully packed the comb and the relish back into my bag. Then I took the divorce papers I had drafted weeks ago and placed them dead center on the coffee table.

The house belonged to her. The car belonged to her. The savings account belonged to her.

I didn't want a single damn cent.

At 4:00 AM, I woke my dad up.

He sat up groggily and signed. "The sun isn't even up."

"Let's go, Dad," I said. "I'm taking you home."

He froze. "You don't have work?"

"I quit," I said.

Then I added, "I'm coming back home with you."

He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

I picked up his worn canvas duffel bag and pulled the front door open.

The motion-sensor light in the hallway flickered on for a brief second, then died.

I led my dad down the hall, and we stepped into the elevator.