Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55839 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
I fidget on my feet before I move further into the house. “I wanted to talk to you.” I move around the space with a sense of familiarity.
“Talk?” My father follows me, and he reminds me of a little kid. I glance around the dining room that pours into the kitchen, letting my eyes wander over everything.
“Yes, Dad. Talk about some things.” I walk over to the kitchen island where newspaper clippings litter the space. I glance down, taking one in my hand. “Dad, what is all of this?” In the clipping is an article that was written about me last year when I won an influential case.
There’s another article about Devereaux opening his club. And another about the Greedy Girl murders and them catching the killer.
“I just like to read about what you all are up to.”
I spin around to face him. “In the newspaper? There are better ways to get info. Aren’t you on Facebook?” I giggle a little and it feels so out of place in this tired home. “Chloe posts daily pics about how she’s getting ready for the baby.” I pause. “Oh Dad, the baby. They had a boy.” I feel almost weird about sharing this information with my father. Maybe Dev should be the one to tell him, and I worry that maybe I’ve said too much.
The sight of unshed tears glimmering in my father's eyes is almost unbearable. However, I can’t forgive him just yet. There’s still so much left to say.
We sit at the dining room table, and after a few minutes of me filling him in on the latest news in my life, I study my father.
He’s lived here alone for all these years. He’s never remarried or even dated anyone, for that matter. That I know of.
And more importantly, he’s never reached out to us.
“Dad, have you ever considered selling this place? Maybe moving to the city with Dev and me?”
My father's gaze locks onto me, his eyes, the color of rich caramel, betraying a depth of sorrow that seems to weigh heavily within his soul, reflecting a myriad of unspoken emotions. “No, I can’t leave here. This was your mother’s dream home. She loved it here.”
I place my hands over his on the table. “Dad, what happened to you after she died?” I don’t mean for it to come out so harsh, but I have to know. I need to understand.
My father blinks. “I think I died along with your mother that day.” A tear escapes his eye and trails down his cheek. “I loved her so much, and I thought she didn’t love me anymore. It consumed me until it drove me mad.”
I squeeze his hand. “You had two children who needed you.”
For the first time since I’ve returned home, it feels like my father truly sees me. Not just as his child, but as an individual with dreams, fears, and aspirations of my own. In his gaze, I glimpse a flicker of understanding, a recognition of the person I've become and the journey that has shaped me. “Oh, Greer. I’m truly sorry,” he says, raising his hand to cup my cheek. “I couldn’t face you and Devereaux. I felt like you would see whatever it was your mother saw in me that made her want to escape.” He shakes his head. “That made her think the only way to flee was to kill herself.”
“She didn’t, though.” I stand to look at the pictures hanging on the wall. “She didn’t leave you, Dad.”
“I know that now, but it does something to a man when he believes the woman he loves doesn’t love him. It breaks a man harder than anything else.”
“How do you think it feels to believe a mother doesn’t love you? We were broken too, Dad,” I say, sitting back down and grabbing his hands again. “We had a mother who we thought didn’t love us enough to stick around, and a father who wanted nothing to do with us. We didn’t just lose a mother that day. We lost our father too.”
My father breaks down crying—sobbing—before my very eyes. “I’m so sorry, Greer. Will you ever be able to forgive me? I was hurting too badly. I was selfish.”
I stand from the table to grab a box of Kleenex on top of the hutch in the corner of the room. I hand him a tissue as I wrap an arm around him. “I know you were. We were too, but we were kids. We were allowed to be selfish. You were the adult.”
He stands from his chair, and we hug. “You’re right. I handled everything poorly. I should have been there for you two.” He swipes away his tears, and I shed a few of my own.
“Dad, she would want us to be close. She wouldn’t want you clipping articles out of a paper to find out how your kids are doing.”