Page 29 of Falling Back to You

“I didn’t want to go,” I whispered. “I . . . I walked in on her and Dylan. And I just . . .”

Seeing your mom lip-locked with another man in your own house was something no kid should ever witness. I wasn’t even supposed to be there. The Fabulous Four were meeting at Donovan’s Downto’n for dinner. Cal and Greyson waited outside for me because I forgot my phone. Instead I got the shock of a lifetime, and never had I ever seen Michelle Shepherd so angry.

“You’re getting married, Noelle. You’ll figure out soon enough that marriage isn’t butterflies and roses.” Her eyes had flashed in fury, like a wounded animal cornered and fighting back. “It’s late nights and lonely hours working hard at home for a man who barely notices you and won’t kiss you longer than two seconds. Cal’s got a ticket to fame, and women love that. He’ll be the hotshot athlete with jersey chasers drooling over him. The world at his fingertips. Add a baby or two and you’ll fade into the background. You’ll be the maid. Dishes, laundry, paying bills. Free labour. Nothing more.”

Everything I already was to my own family.

I gripped the handle of my cup till my knuckles turned white. After all these years, the words still haunted me. She’d been speaking from hurt and anger and probably guilt, but she knew my weaknesses and she’d pressed them till they bled.

She confirmed every fear I had about myself. Love is earned by what you can offer. And I believed her.

“I cracked and didn’t know what to do,” I whispered. “I told her to confess or else I’d have to say something. But she kept putting it off.” We were in the middle of wedding planning, and my own mother was carrying on an affair. I left because I couldn’t carry the weight of her secret alone, and her predictions had played out all my insecurities.

Dad fiddled with his cup, paint flecks staining the back of his tanned hands. “About that phone call . . .”

Ah, the phone call. The one I’d made three days after I left to reassure them I hadn’t been shanghaied or worse. The one where they’d chewed me out for being selfish and ruining the family image. As if maintaining an illusion of a united front when we were fracturing at the seams was the most important thing. I’d been holding us all together for years, but even the family glue had a breaking point.

The phone call where after all their ranting, I finally snapped and dropped the bomb about Mom and Dylan. The match had been struck, the house was already on fire—I’d simply added the gasoline. If she was a coward, too afraid to tell the truth, well . . . I guess I wasn’t much better.

Then I’d promptly changed my number.

Dad cleared his throat. “I said some awful things that day, and I’m truly sorry. I didn’t know what went down with your mom until that moment, and it was the biggest wake-up call of my life.”

“What happened?”

The sigh he let out was bone-deep weary. “I begged her to go to therapy with me. Losing you . . .” He shook his head. “I swear, I tried to make it work. But Michelle . . . She wanted out. She left by the end of the year and moved in with the guy one town over.”

Tears streamed down my face. Ugh, I hated crying, but I’d kept this bottled up long enough. It was like trying to patch a dam with duct tape. Utterly ineffective. “Dad”—my voice cracked—“I’m so sorry, I should have been here. Should have—”

He reached across the table, placing his hand over mine. “It was never your job to save our marriage. That was between your mom and me, and we didn’t do a good enough job at protecting our relationship. I wasn’t the husband or father I should have been. I see that now.”

“I should have told you sooner,” I whispered. “I really believed she’d do the right thing and come clean, but she put it off, and it was getting so close to the wedding. I panicked. Then Olive took my car, and no one cared. I . . .” The lump clogged my throat. “I didn’t think anyone would care if Cinderella left because they’d only miss her for doing their chores.”

Dad sniffed hard. “I’m sorry I ever made you feel like that. We took you for granted.” He gazed around the kitchen, eyes glassy. “I never realized how much until the day there was no fresh flowers on the table and no worship music in the kitchen. My little girl was gone.”

“Can you forgive me? I hurt you, and I know I don’t deserve it, but—”

“Noelle.” Dad’s warm voice full of fatherly concern and affection rolled over me. “I forgave you a long time ago. I was hurt and angry back then, but I realized something pushed you to that point. It was so out of character for you I knew it wasn’t a snap decision. After you brought up her and Dylan . . . Sweetie, you never should have had to carry that burden alone. It woke me up. Forced me to get my priorities straight. I’m just sorry it took you leaving for me to see it.” He absently twisted his mug. “I do forgive you, and I love you.”

“I love you, too, Dad.” After more than a decade, I finally got to say the words in person.

He cleared his throat and stood up. “More coffee?” This was the dad I remembered. Too much emotional output made him twitchy. We were cut from the same cloth. He fumbled with the coffee pot, collecting himself, as he refilled my cup before rejoining me. “So catch me up,” he said, leaning back in his chair, his voice steadier. “What’s new in the grandness of New York?”

It was the same way he started our phone conversations every week. And so I told him—really told him—not the filtered condensed version but the truth. About nursing school and my ER job. About Macy and our adventures in the Big Apple. About the car accident last year. The struggles I had relearning to walk. The chronic pain it left me with. The friends who’d abandoned me after I’d canceled our plans too many times because of flare-ups.

Dad’s eyes were glassy when I finished. “And you never mentioned it? We could have lost you and never known?”

“Another thing I’m sorry for.” I rubbed my thumb over the scratched oak tabletop.

“I made mistakes, too, hon. And I’m sorry I wasn’t the father you needed—I regret that more than you’ll ever know—but not a day’s gone by where I haven’t prayed for you. Multiple times. I believed God was taking care of my girl, and I’d get her back in due time. And I hope . . . I pray you can forgive me for failing you.”

“I already have.” I sipped my coffee. To forgive and be forgiven were healing for the soul. “And thanks for not giving up on me.”

“A good dad never gives up on his kids.”

We shifted to more lighthearted conversation, laughing over his obsession with murder shows—something I was fluent in thanks to Macy—and how much he enjoyed hanging out with Quinn’s three kids. The man was two seconds away from bursting his paint-splattered flannel talking about his only grandkids. So far, Quinn had carried on the Shepherd tradition of having only girls.

After the last sip of my third coffee disappeared, I reluctantly stood.