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“Does it bother you?”
“No,” I said, way too high-pitched.
He gently turned my head toward him. “There’s nothing remotely going on between us, other than we are parenting our daughter.”
I wanted to believe that. “Why were you unhappy when you spoke to her tonight?”
“I thought we were talking about you tonight.”
“We are, but you first.”
He kissed the side of my head. “Fine. I don’t like that it was so easy for her to go on with her life.”
I stiffened next to him.
He took my hand and held it between his own. “You’re taking that wrong. I mean in regard to our daughter. It angers me for her to be so dismissive now after how much she insisted on Whitney being raised the way she was. Her favorite thing to say whenever I call her about Whitney is, ‘You do as you see best.’ It’s like she wants none of the responsibility for Whitney’s future or for the repercussions I’m dealing with because of my failure to be more vocal. To be the kind of father I always thought I would be.” He leaned back against the couch and ran a hand over his face.
I joined him and rested my head on his shoulder. “I can’t imagine how difficult that is, but . . . you did get your ear pierced for her. If that doesn’t say father of the year, I don’t know what does.” I giggled.
“You just wait, payback is coming.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“Are you ready now?”
I knew he wasn’t talking about payback. And no, I wasn’t ready. “Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“We’ll get Whitney a Christmas tree and you’ll play Santa Claus.”
“Did you say we?”
“I suppose I did.”
He squeezed my thigh. “I promise, Ariana.”
“Okay.” I let out a deep breath. I couldn’t stall any longer, well, I could, but I supposed I shouldn’t.
I took Jonah’s hand and closed my eyes. For a moment, I focused on the way his thumb glided across my skin. It felt nice. I wanted to stay feeling that way, but I knew I couldn’t.
Okay heart, where did we begin? My mind shifted from Jonah to my father. I was ten, and it had been two years since I’d known about the letter Roger Stanton sent every Christmas Eve. I wanted to see what was in it, so I waited by the door all morning on Christmas Eve until there was a knock. I went to answer the door in the dingy apartment we were living in, but my mom was there in a second, only wearing a holey t-shirt, pushing me out of the way. She went outside and wouldn’t let me come out. When she came back in, I begged her to tell me what was in the letter. She grabbed a cigarette and lighter from her bra and lit it before she said, “Don’t you ever open that letter. Your daddy never wanted you. I’m the only person who will ever want you. Don’t you forget that.” She left me alone, in tears. I sank to the dirty tile floor and cried and cried. In my head, I kept telling myself it wasn’t true. Roger was my only hope and I knew he loved me. He had to. Who else was going to save me?
I leaned forward and wiped the tears off my cheeks. Jonah didn’t say a word, he only applied reassuring pressure to my hand, letting me know I wasn’t alone. But I had to live, breathe, and feel the ugliness of that Christmas Eve so long ago. I had to own how much I’d hated my mom in that moment. Why was that so hard? I easily mourned for how desperately I’d wanted my father. I ached for the piece of hope my mom had chipped away in that moment. She would eventually steal every last bit I’d had, but foolishly, at ten, I had still hoped, despite the odds, that she was just a liar. That someone truly loved me. It’s all I’d ever wanted—to be loved. That’s when the hate came. I hated her. Not just then but now. I hated her for everything she took from me. Guilt crept in because I did love her. She was my mom, after all. Own the hate, I kept telling myself.
“I don’t want to hate her,” I said out loud.
Jonah sat up. “Own your feelings, Ariana.”
I nodded and tried to focus on that moment. My ten-year-old self called out to her at that moment, “I hate you!” I screamed in my head.
“I hate her,” I whispered. “How am I supposed to love these feelings like Dr. Morales said?” I asked Jonah.
“You don’t have to love the feelings. Love that you are allowing yourself to own them and feel them.”
“That sounds so smart, but I don’t love that I’m allowing myself to feel them either.”
