Page 117 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I should feel satisfied. Mission accomplished, fake relationship believably consummated, whatever.
Instead, I feel exposed. Stripped bare in a way that has nothing to do with the fact that we’re both naked.
The silence stretches between us until it becomes unbearable.
“Why don’t you ever talk about your mom?” she asks suddenly.
The question hits me like a punch to the gut. Of all the things she could have asked, that’s the one I’m least prepared for.
“What do you mean?”
“You talk about your brothers sometimes. But never your mom.”
I sit up, running both hands through my hair. This conversation is dangerous territory, but something about the way she’s looking at me makes it impossible to deflect.
“There’s not much to say.”
“Hunter.”
My name in her voice like that, gentle but insistent, breaks something loose in my chest. I roll onto my side facing Juliet and prop my hand on my head.
“She used to manage my money. She stopped being just my mom then; she was my agent too. When I got drafted, she had me convinced that she would look out for me. Keep it in the family, she said. Trust the people who love you.”
Juliet doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t fill the silence with platitudes or advice. She just listens. I pick my next words carefully.
“Mom stole from me. Millions over years. She set up accounts I didn’t know about, moved money around, told me the investments were performing badly, when really she was just taking it.” The words taste bitter in my mouth. “When it all came out, she didn’t even deny it. Just blamed me for making it easy.”
“Jesus, Hunter.”
“Yeah.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Best part? She told me I was ungrateful. She said everything she did was for the family. It sounded like stealing from me was some kind ofsacrificethat she made. It all got twisted and turned and convoluted.”
I can feel Juliet watching me, processing this information. She’s probably wondering what kind of person lets their own mother rob them blind. My not seeing it coming and that it went on for years, unchecked, still shames me on the deepest level.
There’s a reason I never talk about my mom.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally.
“Don’t be. I should have known better.”
She touches my forearm, etching the tattoos I have there. “No, you shouldn’t have. She was your mom. You should’ve been able to trust her.”
The simple certainty in her voice does something to me. Because she’s right, but I’ve spent so long blaming myself for being naïve that I’d forgotten that.
The weight in my chest eases for the first time all day. She makes the noise in my head vanish.
“Do you ever miss your dad?” she asks gently, shifting the subject slightly but not completely.
I shrug. “Not really.”
It’s automatic, the response I always give when people ask about him. Clean. Simple. Final.
But lying here next to Juliet, still feeling raw and exposed from everything we just shared, it doesn’t feel true anymore.
Because sometimes, I miss him. I miss the dad he was before the drinking got bad. Before the gambling consumed everything. Before he became someone I didn’t recognize.
I miss fishing trips and hockey lessons in the backyard. He used to ruffle my hair and say he was proud, and I miss it. I thought that he’d always be there, that he’d always choose us over whatever demons were chasing him.
I miss having a father.
