My head jerked but he squeezed my shoulder. Play along, his touch said.
“I’ve heard all about your pies, even helped her bake some from your recipe."
Mama flushed. “I have leftovers, if you want pumpkin or caramel apple.”
“Oh, we couldn’t —”
“Caramel apple please, ma’am,” Alex’s sweet tooth overrode my protest.
Mama plated the pies and when I sat down, Alex disappeared then re-emerged with his scarf, which he wrapped loosely around my neck to block out her perfume scent before pulling his chair close enough that our knees touched.
I cut into the pie with anticipatory nervousness, fearing that my replica would pale in comparison, then bit into disappointment. The pie was nowhere near the masterpiece from my childhood memories. Alex nudged my leg and mouthed, ‘Yours is better.’
“I can’t believe it’s really you,” Mama said, scrutinizing my face as she settled into the seat that had been Elijah’s, but now the table had only four chairs instead of six. “My bravest kid.”
“I’m not the bravest,” I said. Elijah traveled all the way to Japan.
“Yes, you are. You chased your dream even when it meant you’d be alone,” she smiled softly. “Dad thought you’d crack and come home right away, but you followed your heart, Cariño … or would it be Cariña?”
My throat tightened, and she gave me a moment to regroup by asking Alex, “So how did you two meet?”
“My sister runs the yoga studio where Grace works,” Alex replied proudly.
“Your name is Grace?” A soft sound broke from Mama’s throat, her eyes misting. "But … you’re Jeremiah. You chose that name.”
“No,” Alex corrected gently. “She chose the name Grace.”
Mama looked at him, expression pleading. “Before they were born, each of my boys —” She stopped and cleared her throat. “Each of my kids chose their own name. Their father read Scripture at church, and when they heard their book, they would wiggle and thrash.” She turned to me then, and rested a hand lightly on her stomach. “You chose Jeremiah. I thought that name would protect you.”
“Protect her?” Alex said in confusion. “How could a name protect her?”
Mama looked disappointed, realizing he hadn’t been raised in the church. “The prophet Jeremiah warned the Israelites of an impending invasion, but they didn’t listen. He was imprisoned and mocked for his truth, yet he stood firm. When Jerusalem fell, he wrote to those in exile, advising them to stop looking back at what they lost and start meaningful lives in Babylon, their new homeland.”
She looked at me then, tears overflowing her eyes.
“In his letter to the exiles, he wrote, 'Build houses and plant gardens. take wives and have sons and daughters,'” she recited from what she considered my book. “I didn’t … I couldn’t imagine how it would be possible that you could have sons and daughters, if you were …”
She blinked back tears, then her gaze drifted to Alex. “Then again … through Him, all things are possible.”
Grief swelled in my chest, unsure what to say. Mama gripped my hand, pleading and urgent. “I’ve prayed that the name Jeremiah would give you the strength you needed to live in exile, and now to find out that you gave it up? It’s —”
“I didn’t give it up, it’s still part of me,” I corrected, rolling up my sweater sleeve to reveal the Jeremiah 29:11 tattoo on the inside of my wrist. She seemed genuinely shocked, which didn’t make sense because even if I hadn’t shown her ... “Elijah and I got these the summer before he left. Didn’t he show you?”
“No, he didn’t —”
The sound of the garage door interrupted. Both Mama and I froze.
Hands on my hips and chin held high, I rose and faced the door, feeling Alex’s steadfast warmth at my back, a pillar of strength against the impending invasion.
When my father stepped inside, he resembled a faded version of himself: his belly had grown rounder, his hair sparser, and his wrinkles deeper, etched in lines of righteous judgment. His cold eyes locked on my face, and his top lip curled.
I felt lightheaded, to be in this moment that I’d envisioned as a potential homecoming and know, with that single look on his face, that it was about to all go horribly wrong.
“Still haven’t come to your senses, I see, Jeremiah. Remembered who you are.” Although it had been near a decade since I’d heard it, his voice still haunted my dreams, and hearing it made dread pool in my stomach.
Although I was unsteady, I’d had eight years to prepare for this face-off. He may be in his home, I reminded myself, but I’d set him off-balance by showing up unannounced. I knew him, but he didn’t know me. I had the upper hand.
Despite his tone, I kept my voice composed, “I know exactly who I am.”
Just as I expected, Dad spat out Scripture, his voice venomous. “A woman shall not wear a man’s garment, nor shall a man put on a woman’s cloak, for whoever does these things is an abomination to the Lord your God.”
“Deuteronomy 22,” I cited calmly. Of course he started with that. I could work with that. “That verse follows, ‘You shall not see your brother’s donkey fallen and ignore them. You shall help him to lift them up again.’ You’d treat a donkey better than your own flesh and blood.”
The unexpected barb hit him and he flinched before shifting back into hardness. “Romans 1. Claiming to be wise, they became fools, dishonoring their bodies, because they exchanged the truth about God for a lie.”
That verse, which hadn’t been in his arsenal eight years ago, landed like a verbal blow to my stomach. I felt myself reel, until I felt Alex’s steady hand on my low back. I’m still here, his hand said.
But Alex didn’t know how that would look to them. Dad didn’t see me as a woman, so he’d assume we were gay … and that would bring out the verses about Sodom and Gomorrah. I stepped. away from Alex’s supportive touch to avoid making things worse
“Galatians 3: For you are all sons and daughters of God. There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”
Dad’s jaw tightened, red rising along his jaw in frustration, then he pivoted towards Mama. “You let him into our home like this, after I told him —”
“What happened to mercy?” Mama pleaded. “Think of the Prodigal Son. ‘For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is …’”
“This is not my son,” Dad spat. “No son of mine would tarnish our family’s name like this.”
