Page 44 of The Forbidden Fling

She’d wiped her eyes on her sleeve, flinching when her dad’s voice boomed through the kitchen again.

“And stop dirtying your frock. What would your mum say to that?”

“Sorry, Dad.”

“We have to move on now.” He snapped the album shut and picked it up. “This is for your own good.”

Diana bit hard on her lip as his heavy footsteps sounded through the house, drawers slamming open and closed. If he hid the album in his bedroom, she knew she’d never find it. Diana never went in there anymore. The safe space where her mother used to read to her, wrapped up in the softness of fresh sheets, had become a dark, stinky pit the sunlight never touched.

She’d not seen any photos of her mum since that day.

She touched a finger to her lip, finding blood where she’d been biting down. She let out a sigh. “I’m sorry, Marco. I know you’re only trying to help.”

“That’s alright.” He readjusted the glasses on his nose before taking them off and cleaning them with a tissue. “Grief that’s not dealt with can manifest in many ways. We can push it into corners and sweep it under rugs, but it’ll always be there unless we grieve for what we lost.”

“I have grieved her. I grieved her every day until—”

Her dad’s furrowed brow popped into her vision, cigarette smoke teasing at her nostrils.

Revisiting those memories, her body had curled in on itself. The home she’d once loved, filled with homemade apple pie and her mum’s happy hums from the kitchen, became a bear’s cave where she was stepping on eggshells. The best days were the spring and summer months, when her dad worked long, gruelling shifts. She’d always rise after he’d left for work and go to bed before he arrived home—the best way to avoid conflict. But those quiet winter months filled her with dread. He always found something to criticise. The laundry wasn’t white enough, and the soup was too bland. Diana couldn’t wait to get out of there. But she’d go on to trade one suffocating man for another; she just didn’t know it yet.

Sometimes, when the nights were lonely and her mind a pit of jabbing thorns, she feared that what Jason said about her was true. Could she have been a better mother herself if her own hadn’t died? What would her own mother say about this situation with Faye? Would she scold her or offer her advice?

Diana had finally let loose a little, followed her instinct, tried to have some fun, and where had it got her? With herself in boiling hot water and someone threatening to close the lid.

What am I going to do?

“You grieved her until what?” Marco prompted gently.

She shook her head, but she could feel the words about to spill like the torrent of emotions flowing out of her. “My dad hid all our photo albums because I wouldn’t stop crying. We never really spoke about her after that.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“Terrible.” A tear streaked down her cheek, and she wiped it away with the tissue. “Sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologise for here.”

“I’m not sorry, I just—” She pressed her lips together, frustration replacing the sadness swelling inside.

“People deal with grief differently. That’s not to say there’s a right or a wrong way, but you were just a child, Diana. You needed more support.”

“I’m fine.”

He scribbled some notes on his pad, then looked up at her. “Have you ever thought about writing a letter to your mum?”

“I don’t think the Post Office deliver where she is, Dr Marcos.” She cringed. “God, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be so rude.”

A hint of a smile twitched his mouth. “Don’t worry.” He threaded his knuckles together. “Writing a letter can be a powerful tool. Expressing the feelings and emotions you’ve buried can help you move forward. It can bring closure, getting to voice all the things you never got a chance to say.”

Diana nodded, letting his words sink in. “A lot’s happened in thirty years.”

“If anything comes to mind, and you’d like to voice it, I’m here to listen.”

She didn’t have the strength to laugh. There was so much swimming in her mind. The pain from her mother’s death, the confusion and stress with Faye and Molly, the pressure of her career hanging in the balance. How was there room in her brain for anything else?

But she met Marco’s kind gaze, breathed in deep, then started talking.

Chapter Fourteen