Page 47 of Our Hearts Knew Better

I would occasionally place my fingers to my lips, clinging to the feeling of his from the memory, while I waited for the right moment.

With us, it would manifest itself. They always did.

Truth or Spite

Dad brought his work back to the kitchen for the third day in a row when I brought in my own skills I’d been learning.

He was dangling hooks of hope and one caught me, pricking as it pulled to show him, to show me, to show I was not all play, that I was doinggood, and the world didn’t have to end.

It was dinner time and I wanted some breakfast food, so I cooked an egg scramble for us—not to be mistaken for plain scrambled eggs—with potatoes, onions, spinach, tomatoes, peppers, garlic, and cheese. Some things Isolde picked up for me. Pouring in the eggs and watching the yellow flow through and fill the spaces between the rest was the most fun part.

Dad typed away and mumbled to himself, and I almost mumbled some sense tomyself, until I felt another prick in the eyeing he gave me, the smallest acknowledgment, as I plated our food.

I knew he hadn’t eaten yet, so if he turned this down. . .

“Egg scramble,” I said when I carried our plates to the table, his slipping from my shaky hand with a light clang, that I quickly tried to cover up by putting mine down at the same time. “It’s good.”

His face was neutral as he now eyed his food, a single unemotional look that flipped mine around enough to almost sit down before grabbing us forks.

I tripped inside his balancing acts, and I had to remind myself I had stronger feet to stand on now.

I was chewing my first bite when he had yet to take his. Watching the rising steam, I told myself he was letting it cool,and the burn from that hope stung sharper than the one on my tongue.

“I learned to cook,” I told him, now through the burn in my throat. When it spread through my stomach, I realized I forgot to grab us drinks.

“I’ve been learning a lot,” I pressed to his silence, and still untouched food. “And I’ve been leaving the house and I’m still intact.” Though I’d never felt more broken than with him. “And I’m still your daughter.” The cracks showed in this one.

I stabbed a section of scramble, my voice raising in his quiet. “And I still know right and wrong.” What wasactualright and wrong because nothing is as black and white as my dad. “I’m not corrupted. I’m not throwing away my future. I’m still gonna work hard and I’m still here”—why?—“and I’m still your daughter.”

My throat scraped, along with my fork, as those repeated words came out like punches to his chest to get through.

When he remained unmoved, my next bite tasted too salty. I knew I hadn’t added that much salt, so it shouldn’t have.

I wiped at my face, then said through my teeth, “I learned to keep Mom with me in the little ways I can, with no help from you.”

That was the real punch that put a teeter in him and a breath in me.

That he knocked right back out.

“You’ve been proving a lot to yourself?”

And nothing to you.

It was a realization I’d already realized, but couldn’t accept until now. I’d gone through all the stages, and they were pulsing through me again as I landed at the last one. A change. Every change.

It didn’t matter what I did or didn’t do.

No success outside of my dad’s perspective of the meaning would make a difference in him.

Anything I tried toproveto him would prove pointless.

No matter how much I still showed up, he’d stay missing.

“What’s wrong with you?” Same question I’d asked before that still wouldn’t get answered, even as I waited for it. A slippery road took my mom, and now I didn’t have my dad.

When I washisdaughter, I did.

I wasn’t his daughter. Not the one he claimed.

---