Page 31 of The Breaking Point

She didn’t.

That is the thing about my childhood. There was noonemoment that broke my heart. It was the accumulation of small, invisible wounds. Little things that seemed like nothing on their own, but together they formed a bruise I’ve carried for years.

When it was just the three of us, my parents and me, there were no dinner tables, no family meals. Most nights, I would heat up leftovers, eat by myself while they were out or working or locked behind doors I wasn’t allowed to knock on. But when my siblings visited? Suddenly it was a celebration. The table was set. Favourite dishes filled every inch. Stories fromtheirchildhood spilled out like confetti.

Apparently, my father opened the door for my sister’s prom date holding a gun. He laughed when he told the story. They all laughed. I smiled too, because I had learned to pretend. But inside, I couldn’t stop thinking, he didn’t even ask who I was going to the winter dance with, just a month prior to his retelling of ‘she’s my baby girl’.

When Aiden proposed, he asked my grandmother for permission. Not out of tradition, but because he didn’tknowmy father. They’d never met, never even talked.

That is why I said no. That is why I refused to let him walk me down the aisle. Because it isn’t a performance. It’s not a photo opportunity. It’s a symbol. A father saying:I know you, and I believe in who you’ve chosen.And mine couldn’t say that. Because he never knew me. Because he never tried.

Now, watching him joke with the nurse like nothing happened, I feel something sharp press behind my ribs. Not anger. Not guilt. Something more hollow. Something harder to name. He loves my siblings. That has never been in question. I have seen the wayhe talks about them, the way he lights up when they walk into a room. He was their protector, their guide, their hero.

But with me…

It’s always been different.

He was never cruel. Not outright. But absence has its own sharpness. And when it slices again and again over the years, the wound keeps reopening.

He is a good father. Just not to me.

And in moments like this, I find myself wondering:What is wrong with me?What didn’t I do right? What part of me made it so easy for him to forget I was there?

I know I’m not supposed to think this way. I know I’m grown now, with a family of my own. But pain has a way of shrinking you. In this room, I am not Kate the mother. Not Kate the wife. Not even Kate the grown woman who held this family together during lockdown and every storm since. I am just the girl who waited at the table for a father who never showed up. And I still don’t know why.

Jack and Alex step forward first. They go to him easily, like none of the past matters. Like this is just theirgrandpa,and they’re glad he’s still here. I hang back, near the door. My mother glances at me. She mouths,Thank you.I nod not trusting myself to speak.

There are things I may never say. And things they may never understand. But I showed up. Sometimes, that’s all I can do.

Watching my parents treat my boys with love, my father assuring Alex it wasn’t his fault, praising Jack for staying calmmakes me jealous. I’m jealous of my own fucking kids because of him. Goddammit.

Stepping forward, I say. “I have to run an errand. I’ll be back in an hour or two to pick you guys up, ok?”

My father looks at me for the first time since I walked in, “Can’t you stay, I have to talk to you.”

I'm too raw right now, “When I come back.”

Aiden follows me out asking where I'm going.

“I have an appointment at Orange Cove, can I have the keys?”

He hesitates, “Don’t you think you should talk to your dad?”

I repeat quietly but inside I'm raging, “Give me the fucking keys.”

Finally, he hands them over and I pivot on my feet. Without looking back, I walk away. I can’t with him. The number of times I've tried to make Aiden see my side, understand my pain and he just... God, maybe this marriageisover.

When I reach the car, I grip the steering wheel with both hands, just to steady myself. The keys jingle as I shove them into the ignition, but I don’t start the engine. Not yet.

I stare straight ahead.

My father and Aiden.

Two different men. Different lives. Different stories. And yet, somehow, they blur into the same shape.

I spent my entire childhood chasing crumbs from my father’s table. Every report card I brought home, every medal, everyperfectly ironed dress, I did it all in the hope he might finallyseeme. That he’d nod with approval, say something kind, ask me a question about my day. I even got an MBA, thinking maybe that would earn a seat at his table. He worked at a Fortune 500 company. I thought maybe,just maybe,he’d see that I followed the path he respected. That I was valuable. That I mattered.

Spoiler alert: It did nothing.

---