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No.
I rock back.
He’s to blame.
Isn’t he?
He has to be.
Tears crest my eyes as I try to block out the truth. No.
Think about it, Willow.
I don’t want to. It’s easy believing one way for so long, to put all of my emotions in this one drawer that makes the most sense. It hurts having someone yank open the drawer and dump out its contents, destroying what I know is real.
She’s my ally.
She’s my confidant and my friend.
She’s my mom.
She wouldn’t lie. She wouldn’t abandon anyone. She’s my mom…the person who spent five hours helping me with a science fair project in eighth grade—who took me to the midnight showing of Avengers, even though she had work early in the morning.
She’s kind-hearted and loving. She’s sweet-tempered and generous.
I can’t imagine her abandoning a puppy, let alone an actual person…her person…
It’s not real.
And then my mom says, with staggered breath, “I never saw his father after the day the baby was born…” I can’t tell whether this is true or not. She plants her eyes on the ground in shame, never meeting my dad’s gaze.
“You’re lying again,” he grits.
“I’m not!” she screams at the floor. “Those were checks from him, but it’s been twenty-four years since I last saw him. He had his assistant fly out…and give the checks to me. Five years ago was the last one. I’ve told you this. Please, Rob—” She tries to grab onto his forearm, but he jerks away. She catches air and then grips the sink counter for support again.
I lean my weight on the doorframe, my glasses misted with tears, and I take them off with trembling hands and rub them on my green striped shirt. I try hard not to make a noise, but my nose runs…I wipe that with my arm—shaking.
Stop shaking, Willow. It’s okay…
My chin quivers.
You’ve been on the wrong side of things all along. You fool.
I expected my dad to hurt me.
I never expected her to.
My father silently fumes before he bursts again. “And why’d he just give you checks?” He lets out an anguished laugh, hands on his waist. “You’re telling me there was nothing attached to them? No stipulation?” He shakes his head in disbelief.
“I told you, he wanted me to keep quiet, out of pity, I don’t know. He just kept sending them, and we needed the money for your car, the house—”
“You’ve got to be…” He yells at the top of his lungs, pissed and furious. I flinch, and then he grabs a nearby bowl of oranges. He tosses it violently at the wall.
I jump as the ceramic shatters all over the linoleum.
“He paid for my car, for my house?!” He points a finger at his chest again, a good distance still between him and my mom, as though it sickens him to even be near her.
“Please…”
“Did you cheat on me?” he suddenly asks, veins protruding from his neck. “Tell me the fucking truth, Emily!” He’s crying.
I’ve never seen my dad shed a tear, not even from anger, not even when he said goodbye to me.
My mom rocks back a little, as though his words and voice have shoved her hard. At her extended silence, I want to press my back to the wall and slide down into a tight ball. I want to hide, but I can’t unfreeze. I can’t move.
“I didn’t…” The way her voice trails off, it makes it so hard to believe her—but I still want to. I want to believe she didn’t do this.
She didn’t cheat on my dad. She didn’t.
I believe it. I do. I want to be on her side.
My dad breathes heavily, his chest rising and falling, tears dripping. And then he asks, “Is she even my daughter?”
My throat swells closed. She didn’t cheat on my dad. He has it all wrong.
Maybe I just really want her to confide in me. To tell me the truth. This force inside pushes me, and I round the corner. “Mom?” I sound small.
As I stare between my mom and dad, their rage and hurt and distress start to cage behind an opaque screen, one that bars me from entry.
I blink, wetness sopping my lashes.
I hate that they won’t show me anything real right now—that I have to spy in order to see it.
My mom straightens up and rubs her cheeks with the back of her hand. “Go upstairs, honey.” Her voice cracks.
“Who’s my father?” I ask.
“Rob Moore is your father, and he’s Ellie’s too,” she says adamantly. “It’s not what you think—”
“I’m leaving,” my father says, his tears dried up. Another glare plastered on his face.
He hardly acknowledges me.
He passes me to reach the doorway, and our bodies seem to lean away from each other, like pressing the wrong side of two magnets together, unable to near.
He has a clear aversion to me, and now I think I know why. He believes I’m not his child, even when I really am.
