Page 5 of Landon & Shay: Part One

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Shay

My father wasthe king of our castle, and I was his favorite little princess.

Sure, I was his only daughter, which made me his favorite by default, but Mom always made sure to remind me. “Your father’s love is big, even though he sometimes doesn’t know how to show it.”

That was a true fact. My dad wasn’t a good man, but he was a good father for the most part, though he never really showed his love in a straightforward way. He showed it in his actions and in his critiques. Once when I was younger, I remembered Mom studying for her nursing degree, and she asked Dad to help her study. He told her flatly that he wouldn’t, because she had to learn how to do it on her own, seeing how he wouldn’t be there to help her with the exam.

I thought he was being cruel for no good reason.

Mom disagreed. “He’s right not to help. He won’t be there for the test, therefore I should do it on my own.”

She passed the exam without his help, and when she told him the news, he had a diamond necklace awaiting her in the living room as a congratulations gift. “I knew you would pass without my help,” he told her. “You’re smart without me.”

They loved each other. From the outside looking in, it probably appeared that Mom loved him more than he loved her, but I knew better. My father was a complex man. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d heard him say he loved me, but he offered that love in his looks, in his short nods and his tiny smirks. When he was pleased with you, he’d nod twice your way. When he was upset, his ice blue eyes would pierce a hole through your soul. When he was very upset, he’d pierce a hole through a wall. When he was sad, he disappeared.

My parents’ love story had years of challenges attached to it. Dad used to get into trouble when he was younger, dealing drugs in their old neighborhood. I knew it was an awkward thing to say, but my father was great at what he did. He was a solid salesman. Mom always said he could sell poop to a person and they’d use it as shampoo. For a while, we lived a pretty lavish lifestyle. It wasn’t until he started using the drugs himself that everything began to crumble. The worst thing a drug dealer can ever do is sample the product. As he partook in the drugs, his alcohol usage grew too, and he became even colder than before. Distant. Hard.

Cruel.

There were many nights he’d come home hollering drunk and high, slurring his words. There were other nights he simply wouldn’t come home.

The turning point for him was when a buddy of his got shot and killed, and Dad got caught by the cops. He’d ended up in prison for a few years.

He’d been out for a while now, and he’d gone clean from dealing and using drugs and alcohol after he was released.

It had been over a year since he’d come home.

A year, two months, and twenty-one days.

But who was counting?

Mom hated even talking about Dad’s former struggles. She glossed over it as if it hadn’t even happened. My grandmother, Mima for short, wasn’t as closed off to talking about my father’s past. She’d moved in with Mom and me when Dad got locked up for dealing. We needed the help around the house, and Mima stepped right in to help cover the bills. Honestly, I was thankful for that. For how cold my father was, my grandmother was the complete opposite. She was warm, open, and giving. Mima’s heart was made of gold, and she went out of her way to make sure the ones she loved were taken care of.

When it was just the three girls, the house felt so light, so fun, so free. During that period of time, I slept so much easier, without fear of the unknown with my father. At least when he was locked up, he couldn’t get into any more trouble. At least when he was locked up, he couldn’t end up dead from a deal gone bad.

It wasn’t a secret that my grandmother and father didn’t see eye to eye on a lot of things. When he was released, he came back to a home thinking he was just going to be in charge of everything, but Mima had a different point of view. They butted heads on the regular. Mom tried her best to keep our house a place of peace. For the most part, it worked. Mima avoided my father, and my father avoided her.

Except for when we all came together to celebrate important days.

If there was anything my family was good at, it was celebrating important milestones, and Mom’s birthday was one of them. She was thirty-two today, and I swore she didn’t look a day over eighteen. Often times, people confused Mom and me as siblings—boy, did she love that. I was certain I’d be grateful for those genetics down the line.

My cousin, Eleanor, and her parents, Kevin and Paige, always joined us to celebrate birthdays and holidays. Uncle Kevin was my father’s older brother, but I swore he looked five years younger than Dad. Then again, Kevin hadn’t lived quite the adventurous, dangerous life Dad had. The wrinkles on Kevin’s face weren’t formed from stress and struggle—they were from laughter and joy.

Mima set the birthday cake down on the table and began singing ‘Happy Birthday’ then everyone joined in. Mom grinned ear to ear as we sang out loud, just awfully. She sat next to Dad, and I watched as his hand gently squeezed her knee.

Sometimes, I’d catch Dad staring at Mom with wonderment in his eyes. When I’d call him out on his longing gaze, he’d shake his head, and say, “I don’t deserve her. I never have, and I never will. Your mother is a saint, too good for me—too good for this world.”

We could both agree on that. I couldn’t imagine the things my father had put her through. Mom would never tell me about those things, though. I was certain if I knew all their secrets, I’d end up hating my father, which was probably why Mom never told me. She didn’t want to damage my view on the man who’d raised me. But, I knew loving a man like my father wasn’t an easy task. It took a strong heart to deal with a man like him, and I knew Mom’s heart beat with strength. If there was one constant in my life, it was my mother’s love. I never questioned it in any way, shape, or form, and I doubt Dad questioned it, either. She was the definition of ride or die—loyal through and through. She gave her love wholeheartedly, even at the expense of it draining her own soul.

Mima started cutting the cake, and Paige smiled her way. “You’ll have to give me the recipe for the cake, Maria. It’s to die for.”

“Oh no, sweetheart. My recipes will die with me. I one-hundred percent plan to be buried with my cookbook,” Mima semi-joked. I had no doubt she’d take that book to her grave. Mom would probably be crazy enough to dig it up, though, just for one more taste of Mima’s enchiladas. I wouldn’t blame her, either.

Mima’s food was like eating a bit of heaven, and I’d be right there with my mother, shovel in my hand, in search of the secret ingredient in her homemade tortillas.

Dad stood up from the table after everyone had their cake in front of them. He cleared his throat. Dad wasn’t one for speeches. He was a pretty quiet man. Mom always said he thought all his words to death and by the time they were ready to leave his mouth, they came out mute.

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