Page 104 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

I didn’t want to be that man anymore.

My eyes remained fixed on her.

I watched her nod to Naija and slide into the car. I watched the engine come to life. I watched the car move away, tracking it until it became a speck in the distance. Then even that disappeared.

I didn’t look away.

Not once.

And she never looked back.

Not once.

Chapter 17

The sound of shattering glass rang through the house.

I rushed into the dining room. I took it in at a glance: Cassandra stood at the head of the table, breathing through her mouth. Her hand remained glued to the rim of her dinner plate, ready to hurl it near the same spot a cluster of glass shards lay on a gin-stained rug. Behind her, Mrs. Morris was pressed flat against the far wall, her chin trembling, clutching a silver tray at her chest like a shield.

“Cassandra.” My voice was low, a command that sliced cleanly through the charged air.

Her head jerked toward me, her expression slack, like a puppet with half its strings cut, and her eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, wet with the misery she was always manufacturing. The rage that had filled the room thirty seconds ago drained right out of her. Replaced by a flood of tears. “Dad,” she choked out.

I crossed the room in a few strides, carefully pried the plate from her clammy, white-knuckled grip, and pulled her into a firm hug. Over her trembling shoulder, my eyes met Mrs. Morris’s. “Go. I’ll handle this.”

Mrs. Morris nodded and immediately backed out through the swinging door, her apron whispering against the frame, leaving the smell of her sweat behind.

Cassandra’s fists clutched at my shirt as she wept, her chest hitching against mine in long, ragged spasms that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than her lungs. I stroked the back of her head, grounding her, steadying her.

“It’s alright,” I murmured, even though it wasn’t. Even though her spiraling was becoming more frequent. Even though I could feel how close she was to another break.

But for now, I held her together.

Like I always did.

“It’s been two months, Dad,” she sobbed, her whole body trembling with the force of it. “He hasn’t called. He hasn’t apologized. You said he’d come crawling back, begging for my forgiveness, for me to return. You promised me that would happen.” Her voice broke. “What happened? Why isn’t he here?”

“Shhh,” I soothed, continuing to stroke her hair. “He’ll come around. When have I ever lied to you?”

She pushed back violently, her eyes blazing with a fresh wave of betrayal. “You weren’t there! You didn’t see the way he looked at me. Like I was nothing. Less than nothing. You told me he loved me!”

I’d navigated this hysterical loop with her countless times before. I kept my voice calm, my question pointed. “Was he alone with you when he said these things?”

She paused, the anger in her eyes flickering with doubt. “No, Liam and Rohan were there too.”

“Then of course he had to lie,” I said, my voice soft. I guided her to sit and took the chair beside her.

“Think, Cassandra. Remember how careful he always was? How he never let anyone see what he truly felt? The looks he’d give you when he thought no one was watching? The way he’d find an excuse to be near you?” I leaned in. “That boy loved you before he even understood what the word meant.”

She nodded slowly, clinging to the familiar story. “I know, Dad. But…” Her face crumpled again. “How could he make it sound so real? So final?”

I pulled her head to my shoulder, my voice a low, comforting murmur. “My darling, you’re not seeing the full picture. It’s not about you. It’s about me. First, the shame of what his father did, stealing from us, running off and leaving us to clean up the mess. And now he’s in business with Liam, the son of the man his father robbed. Imagine the guilt he carries. He must feel like a thief twice over.”

I sighed, the sound heavy with manufactured understanding.

“Of course he has to push you away. In his mind, he’s already taken so much from this family. How could he possibly dare to take the one thing that’s truly precious to me? To ask for my daughter, too?” I shook my head. “He has to pretend he feels nothing. In his twisted sense of honor, he believes he doesn’t deserve you.”

His father hadn’t stolen from me. The man was a fool, choosing to abandon his family for a fleeting affair, but he was no thief. That particular lie, however, was far too useful. Cassandra didn’t need the mundane truth; she needed a grand narrative of betrayal and inherited guilt to explain Cassian’s distance.