Page 4 of Taboo
Enough wallowing, Amelia. Everything’s worked out well for him. He is happy. Let him be.
I force myself to snap the magazine shut and grab the sandwich, cutting it in half with deliberate precision. The bread is soft, and Mrs. Harrow’s homemade cranberry spread should have added the right amount of tart flavor to the sandwich, but it’s all ash in my mouth. I chew, swallow, force another bite, my movements mechanical. But as I chew, the tears begin rolling down my face of their own accord. I swipe them away angrily.
For God’s sake! Eat. Just eat. He belongs to someone else now.
I finish half the sandwich, and push the tray aside. My gaze drifts to the magazine. Grabbing it, I clutch it to my chest like a secret I can’t bear to release. My heart fills with a mix ofunbearable longing and loss. My head bows with the terrible weight of it.
“Oh, Max,” I whisper brokenly. “I know you’ve moved on, but I still can’t let go.”
Slowly, I walk over to the library nook in the corner of the room. The shelves are stuffed with rows of books and a growing pile of magazines—Forbes, Business Week, Fortune,—fifteen issues, each with Max’s face or name somewhere inside. I carefully put the new magazine on the top of the pile and return to my easel. The dragon’s scales will be a refuge from my pain.
I start to work and eventually, the pain recedes.
A sharp knock startles me, and I turn to face the door with surprise. Mrs. Harrow is back, her face apologetic. “Your father wants to see you, Miss Amelia.”
My brush stills, and a chill creeps up my spine. “Now?” I ask, frowning.
She nods. “Yes.”
I leap to my feet. “Is he okay? Did he eat his lunch?”
“He barely touched his food, but that’s normal these days. He’s had all his meds this morning, slept a bit, and now he’s asking for you.”
I nod, my stomach in knots. Dad’s been a ghost these days, preferring solitude as the cancer tightens its grip. If he’s asking for me, it’s serious.
“Alright,” I say, setting the brush down.
Mrs. Harrow leaves, closing the door softly behind her.
The silence feels heavy, and I am suddenly seized by the strong and disturbing sensation that something momentous is about to happen. Impulsively, I grasp the whole pile of magazines and, holding them tight to my chest, run from my studio towards my father’s bedroom.
Chapter
Two
AMELIA
My heart is a knotted mess, anger simmering beneath a thin layer of restraint as I fly towards Dad’s room. The staircase feels endless, each step a loud echoing thud. The glossy edges of the magazines bite into my skin, a sharp reminder of why I’m holding them—Max’s face, his success, his life without me.
What am I going to say to Dad?
The question loops in my mind, tangled with resentment.
I want to shove these magazines in his face, demand why he treated Max like garbage, why he cut him off without a word after that night. Not just Max, but eventually, his mom too, was forced out of her job here as if she were nothing. Before he dies, I must ask him how he could do such a thing to his own son? The question fuels my steps.
My breath comes sharp and quick.
But it’s not just anger. There’s pride, fierce and bittersweet, for Max. He’s soared past Dad’s wildest dreams, built an empire worth half a billion, more than this creaking old house and itsfading wealth could ever touch. I’m happy for him, God, so happy, but it hurts, a silent, relentless ache in my bones.
We could’ve been something, even as half-siblings—a family, bound by blood if not love. I know it would’ve been hard, seeing him without wanting him, but it would’ve been something. Instead, Dad stole that, too, leaving me with nothing but these pages, these scraps of a life I’ll never share.
The hallway to his room is dim, the air thick with the scent of polished wood and floral room freshener. My flats whisper thickly against the runner, and I slow as I near his door. Its dark oak looms like a judgment. He's sick—I remind myself—and the weight of that presses against my anger, accusing it. I shouldn’t upset him, not when he’s so fragile, his days slipping away.
The magazines suddenly feel like a weapon, their covers screaming Max’s triumphs. I wanted to show him, to make him see how wrong he was about his son, how great Max has become. But now, standing here, I’m not sure I can do that. It feels cruel, rubbing his nose in it when he’s barely holding on. I sigh as my shoulders sag. I decide to keep quiet. These are his final days. Why be petty? What good will it do now?
Let him rest. Let him have peace, even if I don’t.
It’s too late to turn back with the magazines, so I put the stack on the floor by the door. Then I straighten, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. For all his flaws, he is my father, and I love him.
