Page 13 of Fever: Love In Scrubs
“What’s that?” Aunt Kira asked.
“Daddy’s scrapbook. He loved this thing. Barely let me touch it.”
The two of them gathered at the island with me. For a moment, I just stared down at the old book of memories I knew was filled with happiness and sadness. With a trembling hand, I flipped the scrapbook open. There were so many pictures of my parents. It was like a timeline of their life together.
A smile found its way to my face as I flipped through the pages. They seemed so happy and in love. The way my father looked at my mom told me just how much he loved her. She’d been his everything. He kept ticket stubs from movie dates, napkins from restaurants, hotel brochures…all kinds of things.
The photos switched to their wedding, then my impending birth.
My father captured everything. There was rarely a picture where he wasn’t touching my mom’s stomach.
“He wanted you so bad, Wynter,” Aunt Kira said softly. “When Lianna told him she was pregnant, he’d never been so excited. You and her were all that man talked about.”
I didn’t say anything, just stared at the pictures. They changed from pregnancy to a single picture of me and my father after my birth. From there, it just became a homage to my mom. There were birthday, Mother’s Day, and Christmas cards. He’d written so many love letters expressing how much he missed her. In the beginning, he talked about me a lot, but it gradually shifted.
I was able to pinpoint the moment his grief took over. His writing was filled with different memories of their time together. It was like I didn’t exist anymore, and that was exactly how I felt.
“I can’t do this,” I said, feeling the emotions creeping back in. “Please, put it away.”
Tinka went to close the book, but something caught her eye. “What’s this?”
She pulled an envelope out and turned it around. Scribbled in my father’s handwriting was my name. It didn’t look old like most of the things in the book, so he had to have written it before he died. With a trembling hand, I took it from her and opened it to find a letter.
My Dearest Wynter,
I’ve started this letter a hundred times in my head, baby girl. I never knew how to put these words on paper, though. There’s so much I need to say to you. Things I need to own up to, and I’m not sure where to begin except with the truth.
I’m sorry.
I’m so sorry for the childhood you didn’t get to have because of me. I’m sorry that our house was never a home you could invite friends over to without immense shame. I’m sorry that you had to navigate narrow walkways between towers of boxes and bags just to get to your bedroom. I’m sorry that you learned to make yourself small in spaces that should have been wide open for you to grow.
My need to hold on to treasures to preserve a memory stole so many precious things from you. It stole your sense of home as a sanctuary. It stole your ability to breathe freely in your own space. Most of all, it stole the security you deserved to feel safe in your own house.
I see now how you learned to be quiet about your needs. I know why you never asked for friends to come over because I didn’t make it easy for you to have them. I understand why you found reasons to spend most of your time in your room because it was the only place that felt normal.
I understand why no matter how many times I begged you, coming home always felt impossible. I never gave you a real home, only a roof over your head. The walls I built weren’t just made of stuff that I accumulated over the years. They were barriers between us…between you and the father you needed me to be. I deeply regret that.
My hoarding wasn’t about the things, though I told myself it was. It was about fear, loss, and feeling like I needed to hold onto everything that reminded me of your mother because I was terrified of having nothing left of her. But in trying to keep everything, I lost the most precious thing sheleft me. I lost you, Wynter. I lost pieces of my relationship with you that I can never get back.
I know I put you in impossible positions. I know there were times you tried to help, tried to clean, or tried to talk to me about it, and I got defensive or angry. I know you felt responsible for fixing something that wasn’t yours to fix because it was me that was broken. You begged me to get it together and I wouldn’t… I couldn’t. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m so sorry for the weight of that burden, baby girl.
You deserved a father who could see past his own pain to recognize yours. A pain that I caused. You deserved a home where you could bring friends, find what you needed, and where you could feel proud of where you came from. You deserved stability, space, and a parent who put your needs first. You needed your daddy, and I wasn’t there.
I can’t give you back those years, and I can’t undo all the ways my illness shaped your childhood and probably adulthood. But I can tell you this: none of it was ever your fault. You were never too much, baby. You weren’t asking for too much. You deserved everything you needed and then some. You deserved all the love and affection I wasn’t able to provide.
I don’t expect this letter to fix anything between us, and I don’t expect forgiveness. I’m sure I’ll be long gone by the time you ever read this. I just needed you to know that I see you now in ways I couldn’t back then. I’m proud of you in ways I never knew how to express, but desperately wish that I could.
You deserved so much better than what I gave you. That’s why I let Kira take you… to give you a fighting chance. That’s why I never came to live with you. I knew I’d eventually turn your home into a replica of mine, and I couldn’t do that. I hope you’ve found spaces in your life now that are truly yours. I hope you can breathe freely and feel at peace. I hope you’ve surrounded yourself with people who see your worth and treat you with the care I should have shown you from the beginning.
You are loved, you are valued, and you always were.
With all my love and deepest regret,
Dad
Tears streamed downmy face as I read the letter over and over again. He never knew how bad I needed this. The little girl in me was dying to hear these words, that he cared. I’d spent so many years believing that he didn’t, no matter how much he saidit because he never chose me. Years of therapy helped me realize that he was sick, but it never made me feel any better.
But this…it didn’t fix what was wrong with me, but it was the start I needed to finally start healing.
