Page 120 of The Fate Of Us

Suddenly I was thirteen years old again, holding my very first completed story that Ithought could be worth something. Pride and longing swelled in my heart, like if I clung to these pages tighter, I could somehow hug that girl existing in the past; a sign to her that things would be okay.

“You found them,” I said without realising, not taking my eyes off the papers.

“We spent all weekend reading them.” My dad blurted out, and it took a while for me toregister what he’d said.

They’d read them. My parents. They’d read the stories that I wrote to help deal with the effects of their pushing and control over my life. They’d read them.

“What?” I asked, my head aching as it met my dad’s eyes, then falling to my mom.

She let out a little laugh. “We didn’t leave the attic for about three hours, we just satthere, reading.”

I tried to picture it: my mom in her finery, sitting on the attic floor, surrounded by boxesand memories, with a copy of my book in her hands. Then my dad, probably perched on a box, turning over the pages of some battle scene, or another scene that was never meant for his eyes. Not when his daughter had written it.

“You did?” I asked, my eyes diving between the two of them.

I got a nod from both of them, but it was my dad who spoke. “Yes… and they are just…Adaline, they are amazing. I couldn’t take my eyes off the words,” The crack in his voice didn’t go unnoticed. My mom seemed to hear it too, reaching a hand up and squeezing his forearm. “And then I turned to the front page and read your name again. My daughter’s name. And…” I don’t think I’d even seen my dad cry, but I felt like I was about to, as his eyes grew glassy. “I’ve never felt like more of a failure in that moment, that I—”

“We…” My mom interrupted.

My dad nodded at her. “Right… thatwedidn’t see what you were capable of. The talentyou had when you weren’t reading someone else’s words.”

My mom took a step forward. “And you are a wonderful actress, Adaline, you really are.But this?” She stepped out of my dad’s shadow, her steps taking her to me, as she grabbed my hands and smiled the most motherly smile I’d seen in a while. “It’s the talent the world should know you for. They should know you for your words, not the people you pretend to be.”

I stared into my mother’s eyes, watching the fire dance behind her irises, the same way itdanced in mine, and Goldie’s. Then I looked over at my dad, the man who I’d once upon a time been too frightened to speak up to, and he smiled at me.

Goldie had that smile.

I’d always wondered whether that was why I hadn’t been as afraid to talk to my mom.Still nervous, but not scared. I used to think that was because I was like her, the fire that lived behind our eyes, our personalities, but more our ability to hide behind the powerful ones.

That would explain why my dad and I clashed. Two halves of the same deadly flame.

But right now, as he smiled down at me, I’d never felt like his daughter more. I'd never felt our flames collide so softly. Which was sad,but… I didn’t want to cling to the sadness of us anymore—the warped family portrait we would have made. I wanted to see the good, what we could be.

I looked between them and let a laugh slip past my lips. “A night reading and now youboth sound like you were written by Shakespeare.” We all chuckled at that, the lightheartedness mingling with the salt in the air, the charm that the bright sun now adopted.

“I’d rather be written by you, I think.” My mom said as she squeezed my hands, and Icouldn’t explain the way my heart sighed. I couldn’t find the words to explain how it felt like it had been painted the shade of pink that I was always drawn to, the pastel kind, dotted with sparkles and wrapped in rose-covered vines.

It was my dad whose voice broke the silence. “Anyway, we’ll let you go see Goldie, shecan explain everything.”

My mom nodded. “Yeah, go up and see her.” Her smile was more than promising. As wasdad’s.

“Okay.” I smiled, so deeply.

I went to walk away before my dad reached for me. “Addy?” I lifted my eyes to him.“We are sorry. For everything.” He said, like he meant it, and not like a man with another agenda.

I nodded at him. “Thank you,” I looked at my mom. “Both of you. Thank you forlistening.”

And with that, we went our separate ways, and I ran back into the house, practicallygalloping up the stairs and over to Goldie’s room on the opposite end of the house.

Her door was open just a slither, music from the record player I bought her for herfifteenth birthday, the same sage green shade as mine, echoing out into the hall. We were both old souls when it came to music, so it didn’t surprise me when I heard the familiar tones of Dolly Parton as I nudged her door open and headed inside—

My eyes immediately snagged onto Goldie, her sundress-covered body arched over asuitcase, hills and mountains of clothes perched on either side. I felt my breath catch as watched her pick up a white t-shirt, roll it up and slot it into one of the compartments.

Suddenly my mind went cloudy, the image of Goldie being dragged onto a jet heading forLondon the only clear thing up there.

She wasn’t supposed to be leaving for four more weeks, and our parents had just said… Ithought things had changed. What was going on?

My feet felt foreign to me as I practically ran to her side. “Goldie… what?—”

---