Page 155 of Girls Will Be Girls
THE SAD GIRL PLAYLIST I ONLY LISTEN TO ON THE WORST OF DAYS SEEMS APPROPRIATE FOR RIGHT NOW
I whipthe restaurant door open, and the cool summer breeze hits my wet, sticky cheeks, cooling them down. My eyes search frantically for my parents when I spot my dad hailing down a cab, my mom nowhere to be seen.
“Dad!” I yell, running down to him. “Please, let me explain.”
He turns his fiery gaze toward me, the distant and needlessly cruel father I’ve always known, perfectly on display.
“Explain what?” He says. “That you lied? That you quit your respectable job? The job I worked hard to make sure you could have? That now you what? You work for somemagazine?” He spits out the last word. “I have no interest in hearing you explain.”
His words hurt. His words sting like I always knew they would. I knew he could never understand my choice, I knew that him knowing would only lead to his anger and disappointment. But even with the guilt, the regret, the fear of him knowing, I’m not sorry.
Not for the decisions I’ve made. I only feel sorry that I have a father who cares so little about me that this is the only thing that defines me in his eyes.
Not my kindness.
Not my passion.
Not my happiness.
“I- I’m sorry I lied,” I say, trying to bolster the waiver out of my voice. “But I’m not sorry for my job. I’m not sorry I work for a magazine, or that I love it. I’m not sorry that I write about things that you don’t find respectable. I love what I write, and I’m not sorry.”
He scoffs, but I don’t back down. For once in my life, I’m not backing down.
“I like what I do. It makes me happy. It brings joy to people. It has a purpose. A purpose Ilike.”
“Okay, Louisa.” He laughs humourlessly. “You might be having some sort of quarter-life crisis, but don’t try to fool anyone, especially not me, that what you’re doing right now has anyrealpurpose to it.”
“Why is it so hard to believe that what I do is equal to what you do?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not justifying that with an answer. You’re smarter than this. You’re better than this.”
I shrug my arms high. “Well, if being better means being like you, I don’t want to be better. I want to be exactly what I am. I like who I am, and I won’t let the man who left me almost twenty years ago for something better, like I wasn’t good enough, who forgets that I exist half the time, have any say in changing that.”
He looks at me with shock, like I slapped him right across his blotchy red cheek.
His jaw is slack. His eye twitches as he looks at me, different emotions running across his face as fast as the passing cars’ headlights.
Anger.
Disappointment.
Confusion.I have never raised my voice at him. Ever.
But for the first time in my life, I don’t care.
I don’t care what he thinks of me, what he’s feeling right now. I just don’t care anymore.
Somehow, the guilt, the anger, the fear I felt all turns into sadness.
But not for me. For him.
I pity him.
He doesn’t know me, and now he’ll never get the chance to.
“I have no interest in your opinions on my life anymore,” I say.
I’ve always left the door wide open for him so he can come through anytime, have a relationship with me whenever he wants. But this gaping hole I’ve left for him has just been filling with guilt, of not being good enough, of not being who he wants me to be. Now, I don’t need to leave that door open for him anymore.
