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He loves his life. The life where he visits my brother’s club for a good time. The life where he and I are just friends and nothing more.
Right. My already somber mood plunges even deeper into despondency.
He pulls up to my old home, and my father’s car is in the driveway. “Call me when you want me to pick you back up. I’ll be at the nursing home where my mother’s staying.”
“Good luck.” I lean over and give him a hug.
He holds onto me tightly. “Good luck to you too.”
“If you want to wait, I can go with you to visit your mother.”
Roman debates my offer for all of five seconds and then shakes his head. “No, go enjoy your time with your father. I wouldn’t want you to waste time with my mother.”
I kiss his cheek. “I’ll be thinking of you,” I say to him.
He gazes at me, face serious. “I’m always thinking of you.”
I haven’t been home since I graduated college.
With hesitant knuckles, I rap against the front door, each echo resonating through the silence of the hallway. The heavy weight of anticipation hangs in the air as my father swings the door open, revealing his weathered face, etched with lines of worry and surprise. His eyes, once bright with familiarity, now regard me with a mixture of disbelief and uncertainty. Perhaps in his eyes, I’m a ghost, a fading memory resurrected by the knock on the door, stirring emotions long buried beneath the surface.
He invites me in, and I take one small tentative step forward.
Nothing’s changed. The family picture still hangs over the sofa in the living room. I inch closer, drawn to scrutinize my mother's image more closely. It's sad to admit, but sometimes her face eludes me when I try to conjure it in my mind. The scent of fresh raspberries mingled with cream triggers a flood of memories, transporting me back to my childhood. I recall her tenderly brushing my hair after bath times, her touch dripping with love and care. And the way her eyes would light up with joy whenever I wished her a happy birthday—she adored those occasions, believing that they warranted celebration like a national holiday.
And now I’ll always celebrate March 22nd as one.
It’s one of the reasons I couldn’t understand why she’d kill herself if she loved to celebrate the day she was born so much.
My father hasn’t said anything since he’s let me into the house. He stands with a quiet dignity, his eyes watching me closely, most likely wondering why I’m here standing in his living room.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Greer,” he whispers out, like he hasn’t spoken the name in years. And maybe he hasn’t. “What are you doing here?”
I fidget on my feet before I move further into the house. “I wanted to talk to you.” I move around the space with a sense of familiarity.
“Talk?” My father follows me, and he reminds me of a little kid. I glance around the dining room that pours into the kitchen, letting my eyes wander over everything.
“Yes, Dad. Talk about some things.” I walk over to the kitchen island where newspaper clippings litter the space. I glance down, taking one in my hand. “Dad, what is all of this?” In the clipping is an article that was written about me last year when I won an influential case.
There’s another article about Devereaux opening his club. And another about the Greedy Girl murders and them catching the killer.
“I just like to read about what you all are up to.”
I spin around to face him. “In the newspaper? There are better ways to get info. Aren’t you on Facebook?” I giggle a little and it feels so out of place in this tired home. “Chloe posts daily pics about how she’s getting ready for the baby.” I pause. “Oh Dad, the baby. They had a boy.” I feel almost weird about sharing this information with my father. Maybe Dev should be the one to tell him, and I worry that maybe I’ve said too much.
The sight of unshed tears glimmering in my father's eyes is almost unbearable. However, I can’t forgive him just yet. There’s still so much left to say.
We sit at the dining room table, and after a few minutes of me filling him in on the latest news in my life, I study my father.
He’s lived here alone for all these years. He’s never remarried or even dated anyone, for that matter. That I know of.
And more importantly, he’s never reached out to us.
“Dad, have you ever considered selling this place? Maybe moving to the city with Dev and me?”
My father's gaze locks onto me, his eyes, the color of rich caramel, betraying a depth of sorrow that seems to weigh heavily within his soul, reflecting a myriad of unspoken emotions. “No, I can’t leave here. This was your mother’s dream home. She loved it here.”
