Page 112 of That Time We Kissed Under the Mistletoe
I take a beat, slowly processing my father’s admission. I have to give my dad credit for owning his part in this, not trying to deflect.
Still, he is wrong on one important count. “I knew him, Dad.”
“Even so.” He folds his arms across his chest. “The lake house was just a vacation spot for our family. A place to escape from reality, not build a future. You had concrete, hard-to-reach goals, and Abieville wasn’t in the blueprints.”
“It’s true,” my mother chimes in. “So when you and Three broke up, your father and I thought …” She adjusts the collar of her pajama top. “That just seemed like the right thing happening at the right time.”
“It was.” My father grunts. “And for the record, you’ve built the exact life you always wanted. Every dream you’ve ever worked for is finally coming true.”
I nod in partial agreement even as a belt of tension tightens around my chest. This all makes sense, and I can’t fault my parents’ logic. But there’s something else I have to ask before I can move on.
“Did you ever think …” I look down at my lap. “Did you feel like the Fullers weren’t good enough for the Hathaways?”
“Notgoodenough?”
I lift my gaze to meet his.
“Absolutely not,” he insists. “And I’m a little insulted by the question.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, because I truly am. Three admitted this could’ve been a conclusion he drew from his own insecurities. And I owe my parents the same benefit of the doubt I’m giving him.
“To be fair,” my mother says, “we didn’t reallyknowthe Fullers back then. Or now, for that matter.”
“Either way,” my father adds, “we don’t judge people by their last names.”
“Although I do like a good search on an ancestry site,” my mother chimes in. “Family trees are fascinating. And I can’t help it if the Hathaways have a particularly rich history.”
“Before you ask,” my father says, “she’snottalking about wealth, Sara. Your mother and I value a man’s contributions to the world, not his wallet.” He takes a beat and shoots a glance atmy mom. “Orherwallet. Women contribute just as much as men.”
“They do,” I agree, and the belt of tightness around my chest loosens a notch. “And for the record, Three Fuller contributes more to the people in his life than just about anyone I’ve ever known.” I let a hint of a smile curve my lips. “But healsosent a donation with me for Children’s Village. You can confirm that later if you want. The check is from Bradford Fuller.”
“We believe you, Sara,” my mother says.
My father rubs at his chin. “The question is, doyoubelieveus?”
“I want to believe you,” I say, aiming for total honesty.
“Hmm.” My dad lifts an eyebrow. “Way to hedge your bets, counselor.”
“Thanks.” I tip my chin. “I learned from the best.”
My mother takes a sip of her eggnog, then sets her mug down. “You know, your father and I only ever wanted you to be happy, Sara.”
“I know that, and I’m so grateful.” I release a long sigh, thinking it would be easy to stop right here, but I’m determined to speak the whole truth and nothing but the truth right now. “What if the things that make me happy don’t align with yours anymore?”
My father clears his throat. “I suppose that depends.” There’s an edge to his voice, like a serrated knife slicing through an agenda. “We’re still your parents. And you’re still our only child. So your mother and I are always going to have opinions.”
“Opinions are great,” I say. “IfI ask for them. But what I could really do without from now on is all the … pressure.”
“Pressure?” My mom’s brow lifts. “Us?”
I stifle a guffaw. They can be so clueless sometimes.
Then again, can’t we all?
“Sara.” My dad steeples his fingers in his lap. “What you call pressure, your mother and I call support.”
“Encouragement,”she adds.
