Page 86 of A Voice In Chains
I don’t hesitate. “I do.”
Dad looks at me then, really looks at me before he reaches into his coat pocket to remove a folded-up piece of paper, which he holds out for me to take. Confused, I accept it.
“It’s Arkin’s contact details,” Dad says as I unfold it.
I whip my head up, my heart slamming violently against my ribcage.
“I made some calls. Now you can contact him if you want.”
For the first time since Arkin left, something like hope flickers inside me.
On the note, in my father’s cursive handwriting, is Arkin’s home address… and an email.
“I’m not good with words, son. But for what it’s worth, I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, and I shouldn’t have said those horrible things.” He steadies his shaking voice. “All I have ever wanted for you is to be happy.”
My vision blurs with tears, and I look up from the note. Dad sniffles, jerking his chin to the information. “I’m sorry it took me this long. I hope you reach out to him. He’s a good lad.”
Tears spill over, and I quickly wipe them away. “I don’t think I can.”
Dad stills. “Why not?”
After carefully folding the note, I slide it into my pocket. “I haven’t moved houses, Dad. I’ve been here all this time. Arkin could have contacted me by now if he wanted to, but he hasn’t.”
My father remains silent. The silence soon stretches on, but it’s not uncomfortable for once.
“Mum once told me trust in Arkin and the love that we shared. She said that he’ll come back to me when the time is right.”
“Your mum said that?” Dad smiles warmly. When I nod, he chuckles softly. “She’s a wise woman.”
“I think it’s time I trust in us.”
Dad studies me. “Trust goes a long way.”
I try to smile but it’s weak. To my surprise, the anger and bitterness I’ve felt toward my father all these months is absent. It’s nice to be here with him. “You’re not disappointed in me?”
“Not in the slightest. Honestly, I’m proud of you.”
I feel my chin wobble. Fuck. Why is it so hard to be vulnerable right now. I never thought Dad would accept me for me. Never in a million years thought he’d look at me with pride again. Yes, I could hold on to the anger and bitterness for longer and not give in too easily, but I’m tired. I don’t want to be angry anymore.
He squeezes my shoulder. “How are you, son?”
More tears spill down my cheeks, even as I smile. “I’m better now.”
He pulls me in for a hug, and it’s awkward because of the cramped space, but it’s easily the best hug of my life.
After a few minutes, we disentangle, and he opens the car door. “I know it’s a Friday night and you probably have plans with your friends?—”
“I don’t.”
Dad pauses, observing me over his shoulder, and I swear I see his eyes misting up before he exits the car and shuts the door.
Curious, I join him, watching him unload paint buckets from the boot. “Where are we going?”
He hands me one to carry and a brush, then shuts the trunk and heads toward the park entrance. “Volunteer work, son.”
The gravel crunches underfoot as we enter through the creaky gate. A group of volunteers from church have gathered around the community garden, their hands busy with soil and plants. Nearby, others repair a broken playground fence.
“Ready to paint benches?” Dad looks at me expectantly.
