Anomaly: Chapter 4
"Harvest Mood"
I was conceived on the night my parents met.
Dad had offered to drive Mom home after tennis class. Under the glow of the parking lot lights, his vintage 1940s Ford pickup gleamed, its deep green paint catching her eye. Mom was immediately charmed. It was his prized possession—just like him, it was unique, original, well cared for, and fun.
She wasn’t ready for the night to end. They’d felt that spark of connection the moment he handed her the tennis ball, and she had loved the way he patiently showed her how to properly hit it whenever they were paired up in class. Couldn’t they just drive around a little longer?
Dad didn’t need to be asked twice. He threw the truck into gear, one hand on the wheel, the other slipping easily around her shoulders as he pulled her close. The cab smelled like the smooth leather seats, his musky cologne, and a hint of the peppermint gum he always chewed.
They passed the apple orchard first, its branches half-stripped from the season’s final pickings, the ground below littered with fermenting fruit. The air was heavy with sweetness, drifting in through the open window. Mom felt lightheaded, almost intoxicated—though she’d given up drinking when she started reading the Bible.
This must be what they mean by ‘love at first sight,’ Mom thought, butterflies kicking up a whirlwind inside her. Then came the pear trees, their leaves beginning to curl at the edges, surrendering to the shift in seasons. She leaned her head against Dad’s shoulder as they cruised past, the hum of the engine helping to steady her racing heart while the last rays of a fall sunset melted into the distance.
Dad slowed the truck near the olive grove as a fat harvest moon rose in the darkening sky. The silvery underside of the olive leaves shimmered in the night breeze, flickering like sequins in the moonlight. A chorus of crickets rang out in the background as he eased the pickup down a narrow path between the trees, pulling into a small clearing before bringing it to a gentle stop. He climbed out of the cab, stepping into the glow of the headlights. The light caught his face, sharpening his features, making him look even more striking. Mom muttered under her breath to God, “You didn’t tell me he’d be this gorgeous.”
Dad opened her door, offering his hand as she slid from the passenger seat. The cool night air sent a shiver through her, and he ran his hands along her arms to warm them before pulling a couple of flannel blankets from behind the seat. He wrapped one around her shoulders, then spread the others out in the truck bed. They climbed in, settling into the warmth of the blankets, Mom nestled against his chest, their legs stretched out beneath the vast, star-filled sky.
They lay there for hours, talking about everything and nothing. Mom told him how God had said she’d meet her husband in tennis class today—and that He had been right. She didn’t hold back, didn’t filter her story. She figured he might as well know what he was getting into. Besides, she’d never been much good at softening the truth to make it more palatable or filtering her thoughts for anyone.
She told him about her three kids, how they were in foster care, waiting—hoping—for a dad so they could come home. She told him about God, about the darkness she’d been tangled in—the Satan-worshiping boyfriend, the roommates, the house she didn’t want to return to, not even for one more night.
Dad listened intently. He didn’t flinch, didn’t interrupt. Just watched her, taking her in—the way she spoke so openly, the way her beauty masked so much pain and chaos. He nodded occasionally, absorbing every word. Then, when she finally paused long enough to catch her breath, he said it as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
“Maybe I could help you get your kids back.” He said softly.
Mom studied his face, searching for hesitation, for doubt, for a sign that he was joking. But there was none. Was he serious? What was he saying?
Her whole body buzzed with certainty and possibility. God had brought them together—he must be the husband she had so desperately prayed for. Was he saying he believed this too? That he was as in love with her as she already knew she was with him?
Dad was serious. He saw before him a strong woman, a mother, someone who needed love, stability, and kindness. He had always wanted a family—though he’d never imagined starting one this way, a pre-made family, so to speak. But he was good with kids; everyone always said so. He enjoyed spending time with his younger siblings and cousins—how different could this be? Raised to put family first, he had always believed he’d make a great dad. After traveling the world and witnessing firsthand how struggle, pain, and poverty could destroy a person, he recognized when someone truly needed help. He was eager and ready to commit.
Besides, he was completely smitten with her. There was so much hope in those eager eyes—he could feel it too. He thought of nothing else: her eyes, her beauty, her infectious excitement, the possibility of having a big, happy family like the one he’d always known.
Never mind that he had a high school sweetheart back home, a girlfriend his family adored, from a respectable Catholic family, with a cathedral mass wedding everyone had envisioned for him—none of it mattered anymore. All he saw was this captivating older woman who had lived such a wild, impossible life and needed a savior. Needed him.
“Let’s get married. Right here, under the stars, with God as our witness!” The words tumbled out before he could second-guess them. He pulled her to her feet, and standing in the back of the pickup, they said their vows to God and each other, promising to make it official one day.
And according to Mom’s endless recounting of this night, “And then we made love and made you!”
At this, I’d groan and roll my eyes.
They married seven months later, a rushed decision meant to provide some semblance of tradition for Dad’s utterly stunned family. The small Adventist church was filled with relatives and friends on Dad’s side of the aisle, all of whom had watched him grow from a sweet boy to a young man with undeniable potential—now a confused man on the verge of throwing his whole life away. Mom’s side of the aisle was empty, but she didn’t seem to mind. She had won the ultimate prize, and that’s all that mattered.
His family couldn’t quite comprehend what had happened to their beloved boy. He had been the one with the world at his feet—a college baseball career, endless opportunities, and a well-mapped future. They had imagined he wanted the good Catholic girl from a good Catholic family, a great job, and the white picket fence life—maybe summers in Europe. Instead, there he stood, sweating and nervous, about to marry a woman they didn’t even know, with three children in tow, and a life already filled with hardships and complications. Yet, even in their disbelief, his family did what Italian families do best—they rallied around him and showed him and his new family, love.
Mom, ever the free spirit, floated down the aisle in a layered chiffon dress the color of pale sunshine, its empire waist barely containing the enormous swell of her belly. The delicate fabric swirled around her feet as she walked toward my father, her large toothy smile beaming, face glowing and eyes lit with love jubilation. White daisies were scattered through her long, slick hair, a crown perched atop her head—she was his bohemian queen. Radiating a kind of unshakable confidence, she carried herself with the quiet certainty that this moment, this union, was “ordained by God.”
In the wedding photo, Kim and Shelly stood by her side in matching chiffon dresses, clutching their flower baskets. Their little faces stared unblinking into the camera, wide-eyed and innocent. Their white-blond hair was cut short and uneven across their foreheads in that unmistakable kitchen haircut—the one Mom always gave them, using a bowl to shape their bangs. Andy, the only one smiling with genuine joy, leaned into Dad’s side, blissfully unaware of the weight resting on his young, hopeful shoulders—the burden of a future neither of them could yet comprehend.
Dad, in contrast, looked ridiculously euphoric in those pictures—childishly so, with a naive optimism radiating through the lens. He was blissfully unaware that the real choice he was making that day was to walk away from a life of ease, into one of ciaos, hardship and constant struggle.
His grin stretched wide, untouched by the reality that his new family had no home, or the fact he was unemployed after dropping out of college the moment he met my mother. He had never held a real job, had no money saved, and no plan for how he would provide for his new family of five, with a sixth on the way.
His shaggy hair curled over his ears, and the brown corduroy suit hung loosely on his lanky frame, like a boy playing dress-up. He embodied the quintessential ‘70s carefree dreamer—handsome, earnest, with an unshakeable belief that love could solve everything. He was convinced he could save her, save them all.
And in truth, he had already succeeded—at least in part. Somehow, amid the chaos leading up to the wedding, he had convinced social services to return custody of my three older siblings. They were a family now, so everything would work out the way it always had.
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Read the previous chapter here.
Anomaly: Chapter 5
My earliest childhood memory is of the night a man was stabbed outside our front door, on the rickety porch of our little cabin in Feather Falls. I was about three years old, crouched behind the couch in the living room, my small body trembling with fear. Just moments earlier, I had been sitting peacefully with my family, listening intently as Dad read …
About the Author: Sarah Centrella is a multi #1 best-selling author, master life coach, executive coach, speaker and the Founder of VIVIAMO.
This work is copyright protected 2025 Centrella Global LLC
This needs to be a movie.
I can see it so well in my mind. Your words combine to make the most vivid images.
I'm loving these stories!