Page 75 of A Love That Broke Us
He stopped calling and texting.
I never gave him a reason to keep trying. I know that. I never responded. Once in a while, I’d get a call out of the blue. A randomtext—How you doing?But after two years, he just… stopped. He gave up.
I can’t blame him. I gave up on him long before. But I’m his daughter. Isn’t he supposed to try harder? Get on a plane? Make a grand gesture? Keep calling until I finally pick up?
He didn’t.
No. It would hurt a hell of a lot less if he couldn’t call. If there was a reason for his absence. Because knowing he could, and chose not to? That’s what hurt the most. That cut deep.
Yeah, no. It doesn’t matter that he’s sober. How many times has he actually stayed that way?
He wants my number. After all this time.
My jaw clenches, but I keep moving.
Not my problem.
The walk from the hospital to the subway is short, but it feels like a marathon. I descend the stairs, catch the next train, and slide into a seat, tapping my foot anxiously.
I sniff, holding back the tears that threaten to break through. My breathing is sharp and shallow, and my throat grows tight with every stop the train makes.
Swallowing hard, I pull out my phone, my fingers trembling as I type.
Good.
I rodethe train with my sunglasses on.
I know. It’s not sunny on the subway. But after I sent that text to Michael, a whirlwind of emotion swept through me, and I felt like I might cry. I didn’t, but I know I looked like I had. I felt stupid.
The sunglasses were the only solution.
My thoughts flip back and forth, circling the same question:did I do the right thing?
Michael seems to have no problem letting him in. He neverpushed him away. Never stopped checking in—even when Dad was at his worst.
The smell of New York stings my nose as I pass a sewer, stepping wide over a man passed out in the middle of the sidewalk, like he just decided this was the perfect place to take a nap. I hesitate, slowing my pace, heart snagging in my chest, torn between wanting to help him and scream at him.
My hell. How do people end up like this?
Michael’s text lingers in the back of my mind like a ghost, dragging up memories I’ve tried to bury.
That day crashes into me. My chest squeezes, and my stride slows as I stop, turning around right there in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone cusses at me as they bump into my shoulder, telling me to move.
But I can’t. I can’t move.
I see my dad. Not lying in a hallway this time, but on this sidewalk.
I left him.
God, I left him.
I won’t leave this guy too.
I step closer, my gaze dropping to his pants hanging halfway off his ass, his crack out for the world to see. I stand five feet from him, staring.
He looks to be in his fifties, maybe late forties. Does he have kids? Did he used to have a wife? Did she die like my mom? Did something happen that broke him? Why is he here?
God, I can’t breathe.
