Page 57 of October
He didn't respond immediately. Just stared at the slice of toast in his hand like it had become something unfamiliar. Then, without turning toward me, he said it.
"I can."
I blinked. "What? Dad...what do you mean, youcan?" I asked, confusion and a hint of defensiveness creeping into my voice.
He finally set the toast down, his shoulders rising and falling with a long breath. But he didn't say anything.
He looked at me then, really looked at me with the kind of sadness only a parent who's been through hell can carry. Like he'd been holding this truth for a long time, waiting for the right moment to hand it over, and maybe, that moment had come. anything right away. Then, without looking away from the toast, he asked softly, "Do you want to hear some harsh truth?"
I nodded. "Always."
"You wear your heart outside your body, October. Always have. You love loudly, fiercely, like it's oxygen, like you'd set yourself on fire just to keep someone else warm. And him?" He gave a small shrug. "Thomas gave you birthday presents and polite conversation. A kind word, a nice smile, and I think... he believed that was enough. That was his version of love."
My throat tightened.
"I've always wondered..." He hesitated, then leaned a little closer. "Why did you love him? I'm really asking. Because there must have been something to love there. Something real. Right?"
I looked down at the floor, the question echoing in the quiet between us. And I realized he wasn't trying to prove a point. He wasn't trying to diminish what I'd had with Thomas. He was trying to understand. Trying to make sense of the heartbreak through my eyes. I swallowed the knot forming in my throat. His words weren't cruel; they were honest. And they hit deeper than I expected.
"I think... I think it's hard to explain," I said, voice quieter now. "Because yes, he got worse over time. More detached. Complacent. Like he just assumed I'd always be there, no matter how absent he became."
I paused, gathering my thoughts.
"But thereweremoments. Moments where he tried. Where I felt loved. Or at least, I interpreted it that way."
I gave a small smile, wistful, almost embarrassed.
"He had this littlecarnet," I said quietly, a nostalgic smile tugging at my lips. "A notebook. Just for me. He kept lists—my favorite flowers, my coffee order, songs I liked, things I hated. Silly stuff too—like how I preferred soft socks over fuzzy ones, or how I hated people who chew gum with their mouths open. He's always loved writing lists—it calms him down, gives him a sense of order when things feel messy."
My dad gave a small, thoughtful nod, still listening.
"When my car broke down, he bought me a brand-new car. Not flashy. Not extravagant. Just... reliable. Safe. With heated seats, because he knew I was always cold." I smiled faintly, the kind that aches a little. "He didn't make a big deal about it. He never brought it up again.Left the keys on the counter with a sticky note that said,'You won't be stuck in the snow again.'"
I laughed quietly, the sound tinged with nostalgia. "There was this time, after Alice was born... I was drowning. Between the feedings and the mess and the endless laundry—it felt like I was disappearing under the weight of it all, and I wanted help, God, Ineededhelp. But I didn't ask. I never did. I just kept pushing through it, telling myself it was my job to handle everything."
I paused, the memory settling over me like a soft blanket.
"And then, one day, a woman showed up at the door with a mop and a smile. He'd hired a cleaning service."
My dad's eyebrows lifted slightly in surprise.
"And once..." I added, the memory hitting me like a small, warm wave, "I got up in the middle of the night to get water and slammed my pinky toe into the hallway console so hard I cried. I didn't even tell him—just limped back to bed and figured that was the end of it. The next day, he left work early and had motion-sensor lights installed along the hallway baseboards. So whenever I got up in the dark, soft lights would turn on automatically. He said,'I don't want you walking in pain again, even half-asleep.'"
I shook my head, eyes stinging a little.
"When I was pregnant with Lola, it was rough. Complications came early, and before I knew it, I was on strict bed rest,and then one morning, I woke up to the sound of boxes being moved. Desk drawers opening. Cables being plugged in. He was relocating his entire home office, printer, files, even that giant chair he loved, right into our bedroom, which coming from, it is huge. He brought me water every hour, tracked my meals, had lists of dos and donts for this difficult pregancy."
My father didn't speak. He just watched me, letting the truth sit between us.
"So... anytime I felt neglected," I admitted, "I clung to those moments. Those little things. Because Ineededto believe he loved me. That maybe I was just too emotional, too needy, too much."
I swallowed hard, tears pricking.
"But eventually... it wasn't enough. He stopped trying. Stopped seeing me. Work took over everything. And I knew—IknewI was in a competition I would never win. But I accepted it. I told myself, 'No one is perfect.' And I kept silent. I keptshrinking."
My voice cracked.
"I never told him how deeply hurt I was. How lonely I felt in our own home. Not until Laura."
