Page 17 of Aftershock

My mother sat on the couch beside him, her eyes glistening. “Not your problem? Really? If our family ‘isn’t your problem,’ what exactly do you care about then? Because it clearly isn’t raising your daughter. Do you even love us anymore?”

“Oh, come on, Claire. Men don’t need to vomit their feelings everywhere for their emotions to be known.”

“Really?” She nodded vigorously as the tears began to spill. “Because right now, I would say I'm getting the impression that you don’t want to be here at all.”

He sighed and put his head in his hands. “You know I want to be with you, Claire.”

Rolling her eyes, my mom laughed, although she was not amused. “Then you need to get your shit together and figure out what you really care about or get out.”

“Okay,” my father relented while flinging his arms into the air. “I mean, I married you, didn’t I? Isn't it obvious I want this?”

Her face softened, then became firm once more. “Prove it,” she demanded. “Fix this, Michael, or we are done.”

I just wanted so badly to think that for at least one second of our twelve years together under the same roof, maybe he did truly love us. For a time, I actually convinced myself that he did.

But I was wrong.

“I know that feeling.”

But did she? Lexi had lived through her own trauma, but that’s just what it was—her own trauma. She never experienced my pain, and I never experienced hers. She could never understand how I felt, just like I could never understand how she felt. I knew she meant no harm in what she said, but the fact that she said it and thought it would help spoke volumes about how different we truly were.

“Turns out, not only was he cheating with multiple women, but he also had a gambling addiction and was betting money that we didn't even have. My mom told him that he had a choice to make, but he didn’t take it seriously. I actually caught him having sex with another woman a week later.” One day after school, when I walked into the house, I saw my dad and some stranger fucking on the couch. I almost collapsed. They even saw me come through the door, but they didn’t care. That was the start of my bad relationship with sex. I was always terrified that men only cared about one thing—having a fuck buddy. Honestly, I don’t think my guess ended up being too far off. What I wouldn’t give to remove the image of them having sex from my head, but it was burned into my brain. Sure, I was never raped or forced into anything, but I still felt violated in a way that I was never able to articulate. Not even to my therapist. I looked down at my hands while fumbling with my fingers anxiously. Lexi put her hands over mine as a sign of support. “I couldn’t bear to tell my mom, so I didn’t,” I sighed. “A few months later, he had finally decided on his answer, so he packed his bags and left.” I refused to let the tears fall as I quickly blinked my eyes, willing them away. I will not give this man any more of my tears. “Five years ago was the last time we spoke on the phone. He called to say he was moving to California, and that was that.”

So much for having a picture-perfect family. The real story was much more depressing.

Even though he was around for my childhood, he never acted like a father to me. Did he know how much he hurt us? I used to sit up at night thinking about what he was doing in California. Was he happy? Was he still using women? Did he still prioritize his masculinity over real emotion? Did he blow all his savings by gambling it away? Did he get a new family and then leave them, too? Did he ever think about us? Did he ever really love us in the first place?

Lexi lifted her hands from mine as she spoke, “I’m so sorry all of this happened.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” I deadpanned. “He’s dead. It’s over.”

But then, why do I still care so much?

“Even though you may feel like you're wrong for mourning or shedding tears over someone who hurt you, that's not a sign of weakness; it's a sign of healing. With healing comes pain. It may feel like too much to bear right now, but with time, the pain will pass.”

If I could have a dollar for every time someone said that to me, I’d be fucking rich. I heard those words over and over again, “Grief takes time.” She told me that, in time, my sadness would fade…yet, nine years later, I was still in the same place as I started. It took me a while to even acknowledge that I was grieving in the first place. When my therapist tried to explain it to me, it didn’t make any sense. I always thought that in order to grieve someone, they had to be dead. That’s when I learned that loss didn’t equate to death. The repressed emotions I had been holding onto bubbled to the surface like a pot overflowing on a stovetop. I tried to search for the lid or at least turn the burner down to simmer, but there was no use. The last thing I needed was advice about how to live with my own problems. If anyone could figure a way out of this situation, don’t you think it would be the person who’s experienced it firsthand for years? I didn’t want any advice, and, honestly, did she really think I hadn’t considered what she said before?

“Time heals all wounds? Is that really your advice?” I let out a dry laugh. “You don’t know me, Lexi.”

Shaking her head, Lexi shrugged at me. “Then don’t listen to me. If you want to continue to be unhappy, then, by all means, go ahead.” She pursed her lips and added, “Whatever. It doesn’t affect me anyway.” Her eyes glossed over as though she had become blind to my presence. She sat with her arms pulled against her chest in a ridged manner. Without looking in my direction, she whipped out her phone, seemingly trying to end our conversation.

I was slapped in the face with the reality of what I had said. I offended her when she was only trying to help.

Yeah, I’m definitely a shit friend.

Anytime someone tried to lend me a hand, I’d cut it off with a butcher's knife. I guess it was in my DNA. What if Lexi was right in what she said and I was too caught up in my own narrative to even realize? Maybe happiness was a choice. It didn’t matter, though, because even if I tried to be happy, I would still only be lying to myself. Every time I tried to move on, I was only burying my past, not growing from it.

But what’s the difference?

“I’m sorry,” I sighed. “You were just trying to help. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

“Autumn, I’ve said way worse things to the people who tried to help me, so I get it. I just don’t want to waste my breath if you don’t want to listen,” Lexi voiced while still scrolling through her phone.

“I want to believe you, but after nine years, don't you think enough time has passed? Grief and pain are different for everyone, but nine years seems like a bit too long. If I really am ‘strong,’ then why haven't I moved on already?”

“Are you actually asking?” She lifted an eyebrow and looked up at me.

“Yes?” I answered unsurely. “No,” I sighed. “I don’t know.”

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