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“Kendall,” my dad started, shaking his head. “I’m not going to pretend like I was the perfect dad, or even a good dad. I’m aware of my shortcomings. Wish I could go back in time and change all of that. But there’s a lot you’re not aware of. There were countless times I tried to come see you girls, but your mom made excuses for not letting me pick you up. She would change plans at the last minute and keep crucial information from me. You had that, uh—that performance. Your award-winning dance routine?”
I furrowed my brows, remembering my first solo dance performance when I was ten. I came in first place at a regional competition, and my dance teacher put together a local showcase after. My dad was invited, but he didn’t show. I could remember my mom shaking her head and telling me, “He used to break my heart, and now he’s breaking yours.”
My dad sighed. “Did you know your mom texted me the wrong date for that? I tried to be there. She blamed it on me, saying that if I had a more active role in your life that I would have known the correct date without her relaying the info to me in the first place. But I couldn’t have been the one taking you to and from your rehearsals. I worked second shift.”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I didn’t.
“And working second shift meant I had to miss out on all your stuff. Your mom never gave me enough notice to request time off to see you dance, and when she did, she got the damn date wrong.”
He was nearly seething—but so was I. “If all of this is true, Dad, then why didn’t you tell me this ten years ago? Why am I hearing this for the first time?”
“Your mom had you and Jamie so brainwashed back then, you wouldn’t have listened.”
Without meaning to, I gave Mason’s hand a hard squeeze—any harder and I think I would’ve broken his fingers. “Did you work the second shift seven days a week, then? Weekends and holidays, too?”
Mason squeezed my hand back.
My dad’s jaw clenched. “I’m not saying I didn’t screw up. I know I came around less and less as you girls got older. I didn’t—I didn’t know how to relate to you anymore. It was pretty obvious you would have rather been with your mom. I didn’t want to force it.”
“You find it pretty easy to relate to Rylee and Paislee,” I blurted.
My dad opened his mouth to respond, but he stopped, bringing his lips together in a frown. “Well, like I said.” His voice was cracking. “I wish I could go back in time and change it all. I know you and your sister deserved so much better than what I gave you. I’m sorry if it seems like I’m making excuses. I’m just—I needed you to understand that I did try.”
Could’ve tried harder, I thought, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the dance recital he’d missed. That incident really stuck with me as a child, and I’d never forget the way my mom ranted about him the whole way home afterwards. She complained about him a lot, actually, and when I tried to remember what my dad used to tell us about her, I came up with nothing.
In fact, the conversation we were having now might have been the first time he ever spoke a single negative word about her to me.
I loosened my grip on Mason’s hand, deciding to be the one to break the long, awkward silence. “You know… I think we’ve got a video of that dance recital somewhere.”
Without uttering a word, my dad stood up and walked over to the TV stand. He bent over and opened the long drawer at the bottom before pulling out a homemade DVD in a clear case. “You mean this?” Written on the disc were the words, “KENDALL’S SOLO.”
“Yeah, that,” I answered, swallowing.
Mason casually draped an arm over my shoulders. “Okay, I am dying to see this award-winning performance.”
My dad grinned. “Should we watch it now?”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said, widening my eyes at Mason. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Hey,” Mason said, squeezing my shoulder. “If you let me watch this, I’ll let you see the video of my band’s Taylor Swift cover.”
I considered that for a moment. He gazed at me with puppy dog eyes, the same pleading expression I often wore with him. And, for the sake of easing the tension in the room, I rolled my eyes and said, “Fine.”
The others returned just as the video began, both of my half-sisters sitting on the floor to witness my spirited dance routine to a Nelly Furtado song. I watched Mason’s face as he stared at the screen, noticing the way his smile grew as the performance went on.
And I looked at my dad, who stood in front of his chair with his hands in his pockets, a solitary tear streaming down his cheek as he stared at the screen. The only time I could recall seeing my father cry was at his father’s funeral—an eye-opening moment for a little girl who didn’t know until then grown men were capable of such displays of emotion. Jamie and I both crawled onto his lap, which only seemed to make him sob harder as he clutched us against his chest.
The memory brought a lump to my throat, a sob that begged to escape—but I was too stubborn to release it. I bit my bottom lip instead, watching the end of my performance.
“Do you still dance?” Paislee asked me as my dad put the DVD away.
“Um,” I said, sniffling. “No. I’m afraid I’m not as flexible as I once was.”
Beside me, Mason stirred like he was trying to hold in a laugh or a perverted comment. Thankfully, he kept his thoughts to himself, and Paislee continued with the questioning. She wanted to know everything from how I got into dance to what kind of outfits I wore when I performed.
Soon, the conversation shifted to Finley’s recent interest in tumbling, which Mason joked was partially my fault. My dad was quieter than he had been before, limiting his responses to the occasional smile and one-word interjections.
After a while, Rylee started complaining about wanting to go back to her room, which I took as our cue to get up to leave. Angie insisted on giving us leftovers, assuring me she didn’t need any of the food containers back.
