Page 4 of Because of Dylan

He takes another breath as if buying time before bearing unpleasant news. “I loved your mother, but not enough to stay.” His cheeks redden, and he won’t look at me now.

What about me? Couldn't he have stayed for me?

“Your mother was seventeen, and I had just turned eighteen. We were dirt poor, and I was fresh out of high school. I enlisted in the military as soon as I graduated. It was my ticket out. I didn’t know she was pregnant until after I left. And she said—” He runs a hand over his face. “She said she wasn’t keeping the baby. As soon as I got my first paycheck, I sent her some money to help with the abortion.”

He flinches. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that.” His voice rises and cracks a little.

I dismiss his apology with a shrug as if the hurtful words don’t matter. But his words sting like salt on a never-healed wound. Echoes from the past reach out to me with cold bony fingers, scratching at my chest and squeezing my heart, and I’m hit with every backhanded blow, every push and shove, every unwelcome touch, every hurtful word all at once. The weight of it all pushes into my shoulders and makes me want to fold in half again and again until I disappear.

“It’s nothing I haven’t heard before.” I make a “go on” gesture, but it doesn’t hide my defensive tone.

I’ve lost count of the many times my mother told me she should have aborted me or tossed me in the trash. Or the times she kicked me out of the house, only to beg my forgiveness hours later. Her rejection was branded on my skin just as much as the physical blows. But none of it hurt as much as when she turned her back on me when I needed her protection most. That pain rushes back in now, pushing aside my anger. I’m choking on the bitter taste of it all over again. It sours in my stomach, knots my throat, coats my lips.

“When did you find out about me?” My voice trembles, matching the erratic cadence of my heart. I hate myself for this small display of weakness.

I hook both feet under the chair legs, anchor myself to it, square my shoulders and push down the knot in my throat. Allow the anger in again. Rekindle the flames. Anger is a far better companion than self-pity. I’m a mess of conflicting emotions, forced out of balance as if the ground is shaking underneath my feet.

He takes a sip of coffee, and I remember the cup I hold in a death grip. I will my fingers to relax, but my body rebels, tensing with the effort to stay grounded.

“About seven years later. I ran into an old high school friend, and he mentioned your mother and her kid. I realized then that she had kept you. I looked her up and called her.” He shakes his head, then looks around the room. I follow his gaze. His eyes fix on a man sitting with a young child. The man is cutting pancakes into bite-sizes for his kid. Another reminder of what I never had.

His gaze cuts away from them. He looks down. Does the image of that father and his child hurt him as much as it hurts me?

“Your mother said she had a boyfriend and didn’t want me coming around.” His fingers draw invisible lines on the table. “I asked to meet you, but she refused.” He glances back at me, blinks a few times. His voice lowers. “She said she told you I was dead and seeing me would mess with your head.”

I look into my cup. “She lied.”

“What?” He leans into the table and tilts his head to the side. I didn’t intend to say the words out loud. They were no more than a whisper, but looking into his face I know he heard me.

“She never said you were dead. She said you didn’t care, that you didn’t love me.” I say this casually, as if the words don’t add fuel to the flames.

“Becca—”

“Go on.” I dismiss the coming excuse with a wave. “It’s not like you cared enough to even try.”

He sighs as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders. “I was not in a good place when I came home. I didn’t think I had the right to come into your life and mess it up, so I agreed to stay away. I had recently left the army and was trying to adjust to civilian life. But eventually I got a great job and grew with the company. I sent her a check every month. Still do. I know money is a poor substitute for a real father, but I did what I thought was best. I regret that decision.” He speaks quietly, but his leg bounces under the table, betraying his calm speech.

“I hope…” His voice shakes. He looks away and back at me. “I hope you can forgive me.”

My heart speeds up with each word that spills out of his mouth until I'm lightheaded. I take a sip of my now lukewarm coffee, and it sours on my tongue. I push the mug away but snatch it back so I have something to hold on to.

I never saw a cent of that money. It certainly wasn't used to put food on the table or clothes on my back. My mother drank it away, or it was taken by one of the losers she called her boyfriend.

How different my life could have been if he’d been around. The thought rips at my chest and claws inside of me. But I left that life behind and vowed to never look back. I created an alternative version of myself. A new school, a new state, new friends, a perfect GPA—and yet none of it is enough of a barrier. The past catches up with me again and again. I'm so tired of running, of lying to myself, and everyone I know. I'm a farce. A lie. A parody of a carefree girl.

I’m hurting. Broken. This is eating me alive. I have no place to go, nowhere left to hide, and the one person who could have made a difference sits across from me asking for forgiveness.

I laugh and stuff the pain under a thick coat of fuck-yous and I-don’t-cares.

I stand up and push away from the table, the chair dragging on the floor with a metallic screech. The sound sharp in my years.

“My forgiveness won’t change the past.” I turn away from his pleading gaze. I can feel it burning holes in my back and trying to reach my heart, but no such luck. I killed the little bastard years ago.

I take three steps before he calls my name.

“Becca?”

I hesitate, stop, glance over my shoulder.

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