“So, you kept this from me, hoping I’d find out when? Never?” I move to stand, unable to sit still any longer.
“I don’t—I’m sorry. Please understand, we just didn’t want you to hurt anymore. You already hurt so much.” Pop reaches for my wrist, grasping it lightly, but I pull away.
“Do you have any idea,”—my voice is rising, heart pounding out of my chest—“how I trieddesperatelyjust to get her attention? To show her I was worth it, worthy of her love, worthy of her time. Do you have any idea how many times I checked my mailbox hoping to hear from her? To know if she was proud of the woman I’ve become, and forwhat?Nothing! Because she wasdead!All that wasted energy. I could have?—”
“You could have what? Given up? Stopped trying to become the woman you are because there was no one to do it for anymore?”
I’m taken aback by his tone. He’s never been one to raise his voice at me. He was always the calm one, the level-headed one.
“I could have let it go! All that false hope. I could have let it go.” I throw my hands up, letting them fall to my sides. My shoulders curl in, arms crossing. I turn my back to him and stare at a little brown bird that’s found the bird feeder.
“Listen to me. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you sooner, but I don’t regret keeping this from you because the woman you worked hard to be is someone you should be proud of. I sure am. No one can say for certain whether you’d have kept working, or would have given up on yourself, if you knew. Am I sorry you’re hurting now? Of course I am. I knew this day would come though, andhere we are. So now we’re gonna face it.” He comes to stand beside me.
I stare at the bird, unable to meet the eyes of the man next me.
“Not tonight. I’m feeling a little betrayed by the one person I never thought would keep secrets from me, and I think I’d like to leave.”
“Now hang on a second. There’s something you need to know.” His voice is firm and commanding. “I need you to come with me.”
Pop moves past me, holding the screen door open. He leaves no room for argument, so I follow him wordlessly into his office.
Papers and folders are stacked in lopsided piles, an old computer holds a space on the desk, collecting dust. The air is stale in here, as if it’s been ages since he entered. It probably has.
He pulls open a nearly stuck drawer with a hefty yank, and rummages around until he retrieves a worn, bright orange journal.
“When I went to your mom's to collect any important belongings, I found this. I never knew when the right time to give it to you was, and I guess now is as good as any.” His voice is rough with emotion.
Clearing his throat, he holds the journal out to me. “You didn’t get to know much about your mom, but she was my daughter, and I knew things you didn’t. Take this, read it, and then when you’re ready… let’s talk.”
I stare at the journal in his outstretched hand, its leather worn in spots, still bright in others. A pink ribbon stuck between the pages. I’m frozen in place, the lump in my throat hard to swallow. Pop moves, holding it closer to me. I reach my hand out and take it.
“I’m gonna go,” I say without looking back.
The thunk of the apartment door is loud in my ears as I stand just beyond the threshold. A soft body rubs against my leg, encouraging me to continue into the apartment.
I’ve never left Pop the way I did tonight, and the nagging regret of it is eating me up inside. It doesn’t matter that I have few memories of my mom—that she left me behind not once but twice. He still should have told me.
The city lights are nearly invisible against the reflection in the window as I sit in my favorite chair, which feels too cold, next to my favorite window in a space that feels too cramped.
Make a wish.The words tumble through my brain. I inhale a shuddering breath, pressing my hand against my heart. What I wouldn’t give to be wrapped in those arms, the comfort of his voice easing the pain of this moment.
I rub my fingers aggressively against my eyes.Ugh, just open the damn journal!
I pull it from my bag and inspect the soft leather. The cover is plain—no words, no imprints, just an ordinary orange, slightly worn cover with the edges of the paper sprayed gold. I’m not sure how long I stare at it in my lap before I gather the courage to learn what’s inside.
With an unsteady breath, I open to the first page, where I’m met with surprisingly neat handwriting—a mix of cursive and print—in blue ink.
My little sunshine,
My vision blurs, nose burning. Slamming my eyes shut, I’m plunged into a memory of my mother singing “You Are My Sunshine,” as I lay in my brand new “big girl” bed. One of the few happy memories I can recall. Looking up at the ceiling, I blink the tears away and swallow the knot in my throat, closing the journal.
I can’t do this right now.
Fifty-Four
FOREVER OUT OF REACH
Liv
