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“Hey, I make some great coffee,” my father adds, feigning insult.
“If you like drinking tar water and three pounds of sugar,” I say amusingly.
“Coffee,” he says, his head nodding uncontrollably while he tried not to laugh at me.
“Tar,” we say sarcastically in unison.
I couldn’t help but suppress a chuckle as she stuck out her tongue at my father, to which he returned. She returned her gaze to me and rested her hands on her hips confidently.
“Congratulations, college graduate,” she says, her smile beaming.
“Thank you.”
“Tell us all about it,” my father suggests, beaming with pride.
“Well, it was amazing. A just back and forth of emotions and happiness and sadness. I took photos for you,” I say, reaching into my purse and grabbing a small photo album in my hands.
My father’s trembling hands reach out to hold the album in his hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him struggling to open to the first page.
“Here let me help,” I suggest.
“Thanks.”
The first page is a close-up of my graduation cap. Written in big pink letters against the black cloth fabric background of the hat was the most influential quote for which I lived my life since a child:
“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves, William Shakespeare,” my father read, his half-smile gracing his lips.
“It was my way of honoring Nonna and Mom,” I whisper.
“I bet they are looking down on you and are so proud of you, Amee. So proud of the woman you have become, and not only have you inherited your mother’s love for history, but your Nonna’s love for Shakespeare,” he says, gently touching my hand reassuringly.
I absentmindedly flip through the photos of myself posing with my diploma and my friends in our matching graduation caps and gowns.
“So amazing, Amelia,” Carol says.
A confident smile graces my lips, but quickly fades when I notice my father shifting in his seat uncomfortably as his muscles tighten.
“You ok, Da?” I ask.
“I’m fine, honey. I’m fine. Amee, where is Lucas? Why are there no pictures of you two lovebirds together?” he asks, unaware of the tears I roughly blink back from behind my lashes.
“Da,” I breathe.
My father’s expression went from one of pain to concern. His forehead creases and his half-smile slips when he notices the pained expression on my face.
“Amee,” he whispers, shakily raising my chin with his fingers to meet his concerned gaze.
“We broke up.”
“Oh no,” Carol gasps.
“Are you ok?” he asks softly.
I nod and blink back my tears once more, running my palm against my cheeks to catch the wet tear that fell from my eyes.
“I’m okay,” I say quietly, as if trying to convince myself and not my father.
He grabs my hand and gives it the firmest squeeze he can muster. My mouth releases the words “I am ok,” but my brain and heart don’t believe them.
I’m not fine. I’m less than fine.
