Waiting at the Finish

Jen Cassidy

Description

Lydia Welsh packs up and leaves town in hopes of shedding a lifetime of abuse and neglect at the hands of her mother. When she encounters an attractive member of her new church running group, she has no idea that the journey toward healing will require her to look beyond the past and not carry those wounds into her future without risking the relationships of those who care most for her.
A bitter fallout with her mother leaves Lydia Welsh broken and determined to break free from the poisonous relationship that’s bound her. An unexpected job offer, three states away from the only town she’s ever lived in, seems the perfect escape.
But building relationships, including one with an intriguing member of her church running group, presents its own set of challenges, driving her to seek counsel to dig deep down to the root of fears and grief she can’t seem to shake, even in a new location.
When an urgent call forces her back home, she sets out on a journey that tests her ability to trust God and other people, including the man she’s grown to love. Distorted thought patterns and behavior could cost her everything. Can she set things right with the people God’s placed on her path or is it too late to restore what’s been broken?

Sujets

• Religious
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: WestBow Press
• Date de parution: 16 novembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 2
• EAN13: 9781664283947
• Langue: English

Extrait

Waiting at the Finish





JEN CASSIDY









Copyright © 2022 Jen Cassidy.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.



WestBow Press
A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.westbowpress.com
844-714-3454

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Scriptures are taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-8395-4 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-6642-8394-7 (e)



WestBow Press rev. date: 11/16/2022



Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four















Dedicated to my husband, Jeff. You’ve always encouraged and supported me in every endeavor. I love you so much. Also, to my friend and mentor, Anneliese Dalaba. I’ll always be grateful for you. You’ve been a constant source of inspiration and honest feedback throughout this writing journey.



Chapter One
Darkness came one hour earlier on that cold November day, but the clock wasn’t the only thing that needed to change.
“What are you doing with those wet shoes on my floor?” Mother was ready for a fight. Typical.
“It’s raining.” As if she hadn’t noticed.
“I just cleaned up my kitchen. Put those shoes on the porch before you walk through here.”
Lydia, barely out of her raincoat, stuffed her keys in her purse and wiped the bottom of the shoes with a dry paper towel in the presence of her mother. “Are you happy now?” She continued down the hallway, but not fast enough to avoid the onslaught of further put-downs.
“Where were you?”
“Church.” Lydia set down her things in her bedroom and walked back into the kitchen, drying her long, drippy hair with a towel she had pulled from the linen closet.
“It’s past nine o’clock.” Beatrice always stated the obvious. She held her cup of coffee like an eagle with a fish in its talons. This game was exhausting.
“Yes, it’s after nine. We went out for a bite to eat following the service.”
“You left your wet towel in the bathroom behind the door this morning.”
“Is there anything else you would like to complain about since I just walked in the door?”
“Don’t backtalk me, young lady. What kind of things are they teaching you at that church? Shouldn’t you be honoring your parents?”
She always threw something in there about ‘the church people’ as if they were roaches, termites, or some other detestable insects. Another session of provoking and meaningless prattle was sure to follow, only to end with headaches and hard feelings like every other time. She was done.
“Look, I’m tired of the constant bantering. I don’t want to fight with you.” Surely a calm and rational approach might work best.
“You started it. You know where the door is.” Beatrice stood to face her daughter with the scowl Lydia had grown all too accustomed to in the last twenty-two years.
“Why is it my fault, Mother? You always make yourself out to be a victim. Poor you. You’ve been on the attack since I walked in. What is wrong with you?” Lydia’s voice quivered with a rage that had been building for years.
“Don’t you talk to me like that!” Beatrice’s face reddened as the grip on her cup remained firm. Her voice rose suddenly and cracked like a pubescent boy as she continued, “I paid all of that money to put you through school and this is the thanks I get? You’re so ungrateful.”
Lydia sighed. “Is money the only thing that you think about? What a shallow woman you are.” She threw tinder into a fire that already burned hot.
Beatrice set down her cup, spilling half of the contents onto the countertop. She pointed a finger toward the back door. “Get out of my house! I don’t need your smart mouth. You and those church people you associate with are all the same.” Beatrice was shouting by now, but it’d the last time Lydia would put up with it.
She breathed deeply and exhaled. “Okay, Mother. I’ll do what you’ve asked. But I have to ask you one question before I go. Why do you hate me so much? What have I ever done to you that you treat me this way? I don’t believe you’ve ever loved me. Not the way a mother should love her daughter.”
Beatrice wagged a finger in Lydia’s face. It was as if the words fumbled out before she realized what she had said. “I could never love you because your father never loved me.” Showing no emotion, she grew silent and brushed past Lydia, bumping her shoulder as she disappeared down the hallway.
So that was it. Lydia was blind-sided in a way she had never been. Even the third-grade bully she warded off on the school playground years before had been more merciful than this. And yet, at least her years of abuse could now be explained, somehow. Her mother never loved her. Lydia could move on with her life. She looked down at her watch and realized she had forgotten to change the time. A tear dripped down her cheek as she started packing up her room.

“Meg, can I stay at your house for a couple nights?” Besides being cold and wet, Lydia now shook with shock and disbelief while clinging to the phone in her hand.
“Lydia? You sound terrible. Are you alright?” Megan McConnell, Lydia’s best friend since the eighth grade, answered on the first ring.
“No, I’m not. Can I come over?”
“Yes. I’ll be waiting for you.”
The call dropped. Lydia packed everything she would need or want to ensure she’d never have to return to her mother’s house again. Six boxes and one oversized luggage were stuffed awkwardly into her car. She drove to Megan’s house in a rainstorm that would make driving difficult even when your eyes weren’t soaked with tears.
Megan waited on the porch as Lydia pulled into the driveway. Lydia grabbed the box containing her Bible, some toiletries, a change of clothes, and the file of resumes she’d been working on over the past month. Megan opened the door wide as Lydia shuffled through the doorway, drenched and heavy-hearted. Without a word, her friend helped remove her coat. Megan’s face paled with concern, and the thought that someone loved and cared so much for her touched Lydia. Meg put out her arms and embraced her. Lydia fell into them and wept. God, thank you for my friend. Meg led her into the kitchen, where she poured her a cup of steaming tea from the kettle whistling on the stovetop and motioned for her to sit down.
“I’m okay, Meg. This had to happen eventually. She asked me to leave again. I’ve reached my limit. I can’t live like this anymore.”
Megan’s eyes started filling with tears. “I don’t know what to say.”
“She told me she never loved me. That hurt…a lot.” Lydia stared out the window, collecting her thoughts. “I guess I’ve known it all along, but I didn’t want to believe it. Now she’s left nothing to question.”
“I knew you had issues with your mother, but I can’t imagine how much it must hurt to hear her say that.” Megan poured sweet cream into Lydia’s favorite mug. The steam spiraled through the thick air.
Megan’s mom, Darla, entered the room without saying a word and kissed Lydia on the top of her head. As Lydia looked up at her with tears flowing down her cheeks, Darla cupped her chin in one hand and knelt beside her. “God will use this for your good. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, honey.”
Lydia leaned forward and embraced Darla tightly. They both cried together as Darla held her, rocking her slowly. She was a wilted flower, soaking in the refreshing rain of compassion and kindness. Darla looked at Lydia and wiped stray tears from her cheeks. “You always have a home here.”
“Thank you.”
Megan wrapped both her mother and her friend into her arms. Thunder crackled outside, but no one noticed.
Megan pointed to Lydia’s mug on the counter. “Try your tea.”
Lydia took a sip and smiled. “It’s so good.”
“I bet you could use a nice,