Page 11 of Things I Wish I Said
“I won’t deny that, but you’re flailing around. Whether you want to admit it or not, you’re struggling right now, and you haven’t worked a day for Wishing Well despite the promises you made.”
I take a deep breath, trying to maintain my composure.
Wishing Well is the nonprofit organization she and my father created on his deathbed. I kid you not. The man was dying of pancreatic cancer, and during his last days alive, he wanted to make a difference. All he could think about was how he’d only been forty-four years young with a wife and son and how lucky he was to have the resources to live his last days how he wanted, without the worry we wouldn’t be taken care of financially after he was gone. Hence, Wishing Well was born—a foundation geared toward granting the wishes of adults with cancer.
That’s the kind of man my father was, always looking for a way to better himself and everyone around him. Selfless to the core with an iron will. Sometimes I feel like it skipped a generation; since his death, I have proven myself to be nothing but selfish.
“I know the promises I made,” I say darkly. “Trust me, I’m well aware.”
How could I fucking forget?
I watched my father die, and one of the things he made me promise before his last breath was to help get Wishing Well off the ground in his absence. I haven’t helped once in the thirteen months since, and I live with the guilt every fucking day.
I swallow over the bile rising in the back of my throat. “But I just can’t do it,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t.”
That stupid fucking charity represents all I lost.
It’s a cruel reminder of how he’s not here, but we are.
It’s depressing as fuck, and all I want to do is get as far away from it as possible.
I have no idea how my mother does it, how she runs his foundation day in and day out, living with the constant reminder of his glaring absence in our lives while I do everything in my power not to think about him at all.
Watching him slowly die still haunts me. The life fading from his eyes. His mottled skin. The labored breaths. The wheezing. And then nothing.
Fucking nothing.
The image is seared into my brain.
I wasn’t supposed to be there.
It wasn’t supposed to be me holding his hand.
It wasn’t supposed to be so soon.
Mom stares at me for a long moment like she can see straight through me, to all the parts of me I hide from the world, the pain and darkness I want no one to witness.
“Just hear me out,” she says, and by some miracle—or maybe it’s just sheer exhaustion—I find the strength to keep my mouth shut while she explains.
“I got a wish from an eighteen-year-old, and it’s . . . a little unconventional. If you help me with this one wish and decide you want nothing more to do with Wishing Well, you’re off thehook. You can go to George Mason in the fall and play baseball, and I won’t ever ask you again. I’ll even release your trust fund at the end of the summer should you need it.”
I narrow my eyes, instantly suspicious. Her offer makes no sense. “Why would you do that?”
She shrugs. “I have my reasons.”
“Which are?”
“I think you need this.”
I scoff.
“I’m serious. Whether you want to admit it or not, I think the guilt of ignoring your father’s wishes is eating you alive. This will be closure.”
I swallow, her words hitting something inside me I can’t name, but it feels a lot like the truth—a sore spot I’m unwilling to acknowledge.
“And for another,” she continues, “I was checking my emails this morning when I realized you weren’t here, and I came across this one. It’s not a wish I can run through the charity, at least not officially. But if I have you, I can still grant it and go through Wishing Well in name only. Any resources and funds needed will be provided out of my own pocket.”
I sigh and turn my head away from her while she reaches out and grabs my hands, pleading for me to hear her.
