Page 88 of From Rivals to I Do

But as quickly as the warmth washes over me, a shadow creeps in—a memory, a painful one. I’m reminded of my own father or rather, the absence of one. My mother’s tales were always a mixture of sadness and anger. She told me he didn’t want me, that he ran away when he found out she was pregnant.

But I knew the truth, deep down. I was the result of a one-night stand, a fleeting moment of passion. He probably didn’t even know about me. Yet, I couldn’t help but hope, against all reason, that someday I’d see him, that he’d want to know his daughter. Mother had Jessica with one of her boyfriends, who’s still alive. It’s different thinking of it, that Jess knew her father, and I did not.

The pain of fatherlessness has been a constant companion throughout my life, an ache that never truly fades. It’s what drove me to be fiercely independent, to build a life for myself and now for Alex. And it’s also, sort of, what has fueled my desire for this adventure in Japan, a place where I hope to find new beginnings for both of us.

I’m transported back to my childhood, a time when innocence mingled with heartache in a way that only a child can comprehend. The memory is vivid, as if etched into my very soul.

It was a sunny day, the kind that promised laughter and joy. My school had organized an open day, an event where parents were invited to witness the fruits of their children’s labor. It was a day filled with anticipation, a day I had yearned for.

However, that day brought me immense sorrow. My lack of a father’s presence at the open day, combined with my mother’s consistent absence when I needed her the most, weighed heavily on my heart.

As the school buzzed with excitement, my friends chatted animatedly about their parents’ impending arrival. They spoke of how proud their fathers were of them, how their mothers had taken the day off work just to be there.

I, too, wanted to share in that joy, but my reality was different. I had woven a web of lies, telling my friends that my father traveled a lot for work, that he couldn’t make it to the open day. It was easier to fabricate a story than to admit the truth—I didn’t have a father who cared enough to be there.

But that day, as I watched my friends’ fathers stroll through the school gates, a lump formed in my throat, and tears welled up in my eyes. I felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness, a hollowness that threatened to consume me.

The classroom presentations, the art displays, the performances—all of it was a blur as my thoughts swirled in turmoil. I excused myself from my friends and retreated to a quiet corner of the schoolyard.

When I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, I cried. I cried for the father I wished I had, the father who would have held my hand and beamed with pride at my accomplishments. I cried for the mother who was too self-absorbed to care, too wrapped up in her own world to be there for her daughter.

The day ended, and I returned home, my heart heavy with disappointment and a sense of abandonment that I couldn’t quite articulate. I stood in the doorway of our modest apartment, my mother at the stove, cooking dinner as if nothing had happened.

“Mom,” I began, my voice trembling with emotion, “why didn’t you come to the open day at school today? All my friends’ parents were there.”

She didn’t even look at me, didn’t pause in her cooking. “I had work to do. I couldn’t take the day off just for that.”

I felt a fire of anger rising within me, fueled by years of neglect and disappointment. “You never have time for me, Mom! You’re always working or out with your friends. It’s like I don’t even exist to you.”

She finally turned to me, her face a mask of indifference. “Amber, you know I have to work to provide for us. Don’t be so selfish.”

I couldn’t contain my rage any longer. “Selfish? You’re the one who’s selfish! You’re never there for me when I need you. You never have been.”

In my anger and frustration, I let out words that I had kept locked inside for years. But instead of remorse or understanding, my mother’s eyes hardened, and she raised her hand. The slap stung, both physically and emotionally, as it landed on my cheek.

“You will not speak to me like that,” she hissed, her voice laced with anger.

I touched my cheek, my eyes stinging with tears of pain and injustice. I realized then that there was no solace to be found in this woman who was supposed to be my mother. She was as much a stranger to me as my absent father.

The scars from that day would linger long into my adulthood, a reminder of the wounds that a fractured family can inflict. It was a pivotal moment, one that would shape my determination to create a better life for myself and, eventually, for Alex. The absence of a father’s love and the indifference of a mother’s neglect fueled my drive to give my nephew the love and security that I had always craved but never received.

As I watch the man and his daughter disappear into the plane’s restroom, I’m left with a profound sense of longing, a yearning for something I’ve never truly known. Fatherhood, paternal love—it’s a realm I’ve only glimpsed from the outside, and it’s a place I’ve always wanted to visit, if only in my dreams.

With a heavy heart, I turn my attention back to Alex, who is now fidgeting in his seat. The plane continues its journey, carrying us further away from the city I’ve called home, and closer to a new beginning in Japan. As the miles stretch out beneath us, I can’t help but hope that this adventure will lead us not only to new experiences but also to the answers and healing that my heart has longed for—love, acceptance, and the promise of a brighter future.

Chapter eight

Chapter Eight

As the plane continues its cruise through the clouds, I decide to occupy myself with some work on my tablet. I pull out a few documents and start reviewing them. The soft hum of the aircraft’s engines provides a background rhythm to my concentration.

But my focus is soon disrupted by a small, curious hand that reaches across the aisle. I glance down to find the young boy that is seated beside me, reaching for my wristwatch. His fingernails are neatly cut but seem to have been through mischief. His fingers brush against the watch, and I instinctively pull my hand back. I can’t help but feel a sense of irritation bubbling up within me.

The boy, oblivious to my annoyance, doesn’t give up. He leans even further over his seat and makes another attempt to touch my wristwatch. This time, I can’t contain my reaction. I sternly, but calmly tell him to stop, my voice laced with quiet rebuke.

This sudden interaction catches the attention of the woman seated beside the boy, presumably his mother. She turns her head toward us, her eyes reflecting a mix of concern and curiosity. I can tell she’s trying to assess the situation.

“What’s going on?” she asks, her voice soft but filled with worry.

---