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I turn to Carrie, then to Mom, who appears equally confused when he shoulders past me, muttering, “I need some air.”
The door slams shut behind him, the bang rattling in my heated ears long after he’s gone.
Guess I know who I get my avoidance issues from…
Mom rises from her seat, shaking her head. “You and your father are more alike than you realize.”
“Stubborn to a fault?” Carrie snorts, earning a pointed glare from us both.
“Strong-willed. Passionate. Easily wounded,” she clarifies.
Standing in front of me, Mom squeezes my shoulders. “We have standards and expectations for you because we’re your parents, and unfortunately, wanting more for our children is part of the gig. But I’m sorry if those wants have made you feel alienated.” I fight back tears, struggling to hold her gaze. “You belong in this family just as much as the rest of us. Never doubt that again.”
When she pulls me in for a hug, I wrap my arms around her and tuck my face in the side of her neck. She smells like cherry blossoms and vanilla, but mostly, she smells like home.
A sense of resolve settles over me. “I’m gonna go talk to Dad.”
She pats my back before I leave, offering a simple comfort that I hold on to as I step out onto the porch.
The grass in the surrounding pasture sways and flutters in the wind while I search the front and back of the house. When I finally spot my father, he’s standing in the yard with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, gazing at our property thoughtfully.
Tiny flowers in the grass tickle my ankles, crunching lightly as I step up beside him. I mimic his stance, slipping my hands inside the pockets of my pajama shorts, and together, we stand in silence as the world keeps spinning.
“Pen—”
“Dad—” I start at the same time.
We laugh softly, awkwardly.
“You first,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ear.
He exhales, as if to gather his thoughts, then looks down at our feet. “Do you remember when your mom put you and Carrie in that beauty pageant when you were little?”
I snort. “The Los Angeles Little Princess competition.”
“That’s the one.” He smiles fondly, taking ten years off his age instantly. “We’d gotten you both matching dresses. Yours was purple, and Carrie’s bright pink.”
I’m moved that he remembers. “Yeah, and I cut the sleeves off because the sequins were rubbing my arms raw.”
“You damn sure did.” He chuckles. “I left you alone for ten minutes, and you shredded it.”
“Mom was so pissed about that.”
And rightfully so. Pageant dresses aren’t cheap.
He looks up at the ocean-blue sky, lost in a memory only he can see. “I didn’t make a great pageant dad, but I was damn proud of you out there, dancing your little heart out in a tattered dress and bare feet with not a care in the world.”
When he eventually turns to me, I reach for his rough, calloused hand, feeling every bit like that little girl again.
“I’ve always known you’d be different. I watched you march to the beat of your own drum and paint the world with whatever color fit your mood for the day, but I wasn’t prepared for watching you girls grow up, and I damn sure wasn’t prepared for how I’d feel when I failed.”
I squeeze his hand tightly, even though his words gut me. “Dad. I’m going to make my own decisions because I’m my own person. That doesn’t mean you failed.”
“No, no. That’s not what I meant.” He shakes his head. “I failed because I pushed my vision for your life onto you, just like you said, and in turn, pushed you away from me.”
I’ve rarely seen him this emotional, and tears prick the corners of my eyes as I feel the weight and vulnerability behind his words.
“I’m sorry, Penelope.”
