Page 99 of Versions Of Us

“Kristen,” he whispers, his bloodshot eyes brimming with tears. “You’re beautiful. You’ve grown up.”

“That happens,” I say bitterly. He doesn’t reply. “What are you doing here?”

“I know that I’m probably the last person you really want to see right now…”

“You’re right. You are,” I interrupt.

He nods, his gaze dropping to the ground. He’s too ashamed to look at me.

So he should be.

“I’m sorry, Kristen,” he begins. “I’ve made some terrible mistakes in my life. Leaving you behind is my biggest regret.”

I swallow the lump that forms in my throat. I will not let this man reduce me to tears. I am stronger than that. “What happened to you?”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin to answer that.” He shakes his head and looks down at the carpet again. He doesn’t offer me any other explanation.

“Well, it was lovely seeing you, Dad,” I say cynically as I swing the door closed.

“I got your letters.” His voice is muffled through the solid wooden door. The hinges moan and creak as I slowly reopen it.

“What letters?” I ask.

“The birthday letters.”

He couldn’t possibly be referring to the letters hidden in the top drawer of my desk. The sixteen letters I had written pouring my heart out, expressing the pain and loneliness I’d felt at his rejection.

The ones I had vowed never to send.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a tattered bundle of papers. Sure enough, there they are.

Anger boils below the surface of my skin, twisting through my veins like poison. I don’t appreciate this breach of privacy in the slightest. My brain ticks over, searching for someone to blame.

Henley had been the only person that knew those letters existed. Until Mackenzie went searching for my laptop in the drawer that day.

“I never intended for you to read those,” I spit, feeling the blood rise in my cheeks. “I don’t know how they were mailed out to you. They were meant to be private.”

His gaze softens unexpectedly, his next words a complete surprise to me. “I’m glad I read them.”

“You are? Why?”

Those letters were not kind. They were infused with my true thoughts and feelings. I’d held nothing back.

“This,” he says, shaking the wad of letters in his palm, “was the wake-up call that I needed. It’s no secret that I’ve wasted my life. I’ve done many things I’m not proud of but being a deadbeat father tops the list. I failed you.”

My bottom lip disappears between my teeth. I’m not sure what he expects me to say right now. I’m not going to argue his point.

“I can’t stay long,” he continues. “I need to be on the eleven o’clock bus to Milton. I’m on my way to a facility there. I wanted to stop by and let you know I’m getting help. I’m an alcoholic and I’m going to rehab.”

I didn’t know my father had turned to alcohol. How could I, when both my mother and I had lost contact with him all those years ago? He’d never cared to look for us. Now here he is, trying to make amends, trying to save himself. And I have no idea what to make of it. No idea what to do.

He holds the letters out to me, and I notice now the way his hands quake. He’s withdrawing, I realise.

“Keep them,” I tell him with a shake of my head.

“Thank you.” He pulls the letters in, clutching them to his chest and I can see that they mean more to him than they ever will to me. He turns slowly, readying himself to leave.

I don’t know if there’s a world in which I can forgive Greg Riley for his abandonment. I don’t know if I can forget all the hours I’ve spent wondering why he didn’t think I was worthy of a visit, a phone call, a birthday card. But I do know that I don’t want this to be the last time I ever see him.

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