Page 1 of Shattered Dreams

Chapter One

Andre

Fuck, this never gets any easier.

I look down at my daughter, at the tears in her eyes and the way her bottom lip pouts out. Her tiny hands grasp onto my mother’s skirt, holding on tightly, like if she lets go she’ll float away and never see us again.

I hate leaving her, but this time… I need to do it for myself.

I kneel down in front of her. “I’ll be back, Rylee. I promise.”

“But you’re always leaving,” she says, stomping her foot.

“I know, pumpkin. And I’m sorry, but I—”

She growls, then runs off. A moment later, a door slams shut, echoing through the old house. I flinch and let out a sigh, taking a moment before I get to my feet and face my mother.

No matter how often I do this, it never gets easier.

“She’ll be okay,” my mother says.

“I know,” I agree, even though my heart feels like it was ripped out of my chest… for the second time this year.

“She doesn’t understand now, but one day, she will.” I hope that’s true, but I’d be lying if I said I believed her. “Maybe she won’t remember this when she’s older,” my mother adds, but her words don’t comfort me; instead, they make me feel guilty.

“That’s the problem,” I mutter, running my hand through my hair. “What if she never remembers anything about her childhood? What if I’m gone so much that she will never have any good memories of me at all, her father? The only parent she has left.”

My voice comes out harsher than I intended. My mother looks at me sympathetically, not commenting on my rude tone.

“Have you reached out to Christian?”

I grit my teeth. “No.”

My mother puts her hand on my shoulder, looking up at me with tired eyes. “You should really do that, sweetheart. I think he can help you.”

“Yeah, maybe when I get back,” I say, if only to placate her and shoot down this conversation because I know how it ends.

I don’t have time for a therapist. I barely have the time and energy to do the things I need to do, never mind the things my mother wants me to do.

“All right,” she says in that same tone she always uses when she knows it’s time to stop pushing.

My mother has lost a lot of the fire she was once known for. She always said I was a replica of her, giving her back the attitude that she had. I kept her humble and entertained her at times. She never missed out on having a girl because she said I had enough of an attitude to make her feel like she had one.

We’d always go back and forth, having heated debates and discussions about everything, but they were never angry or violent. It was healthy conversation, fueled by amusement and passion from each of us on opposite sides. She’s the reason I’m so good at arguing with people. Maybe I should have been a lawyer. But I guess if that were the case, I probably never would have met my wife, Victoria.

The momentary thought is like a knife twisting in my chest. I sigh in defeat, doing my best to push the memory away, knowing it won’t do me any good. Instead, I rise, glancing down the hall towards Rylee’s bedroom.

I’d offered to buy my parents a bigger house out in California, near mine, but she and my father refused to give up their “forever home” in the-middle-of-nowhere, Ohio.

Despite the smaller, cramped quarters, I swear the hallway seems longer. Maybe it’s just me.

“I’m going to say bye to Rylee.”

My mother says nothing as I move by her, through the living room and down the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. Everything in this house is all too familiar. Not a thing has changed since I grew up here.

I knock on Rylee’s bedroom door before opening it and stepping in. She’s lying on the bed, face down, hugging her cream-colored stuffed pig, Bacon J. Ham. No one knows what the J stands for; not even the pig—according to Rylee.

“Hey, pumpkin,” I say from the doorway. “I have to leave now.”