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The thought that Elden did not deserve. But one I couldn’t get rid of.
I nodded, my vision blurry from tears. “He did that to me. And he didn’t care. He didn’t love me, and I’m so mad at myself for not seeing that. I’m so mad at him,” I swatted the tears from my cheeks.
“I can’t ever forgive him for what he did to you, Mom. But I can’t stay mad at a ghost. It’ll eat me alive.”
Mom stroked my face. “Oh, sweet girl. You don’t have to forgive him for what he did to you. You have to forgive yourself for still loving him despite knowing what he did. Even if the rest of you hates him. You can’t change the fact that you love your father. You have to find a way to get right with that.”
I chewed on the inside of my lip.
“I have potato skins and chips!” Swiss appeared once more, holding both bags with triumph.
I smiled weakly at him.
“Come on,” Mom tugged me toward the kitchen. “I’ll make you some tea.”
I shook my head rapidly. “I need to go.”
She nodded in understanding. “Of course, honey.” She kissed my head. “We’ll go shopping another time. You make things right with Elden.”
I smiled, said my goodbyes and didn’t correct her. It wasn’t a lie… I did have to go. Just not back to Elden. To the airport.
It was a weird, happy accident that the house was empty.
Mom had sold it when I told her it held no sentimental value to me. The proceeds went toward charities helping women affected by domestic violence.
It was a good thing.
Apparently, the house itself was haunted in some way since the new owners barely lived in it for over a year before they sold it again.
The alarm wasn’t activated.
Another stroke of luck.
Colby had taught me how to pick a lock, among other things I hadn’t thought I’d ever have practical use for.
Fate was maybe on my side again.
My footsteps echoed against the marble floor. I remembered sliding across them in socks, delighting in the fun the cold, expensive floors gave me.
My father had caught me and held me by the arm, chastising me for being so childish. I could’ve hurt myself. Shouldn’t I be reading? Or playing with dolls?
The air smelled stale. No one had opened the windows or burned expensive candles in a long while.
It had always smelled of my mother’s cooking, my father’s cologne, a vague edge of disinfectant because my mother was always cleaning.
The ceilings were high, the entryway with its ostentatious stairway was always grim, uninviting to me despite my mother and grandmother’s tasteful decorating skills.
I walked through the house like a ghost, struggling to find a happy memory that wasn’t tainted by hindsight.
I wanted to wish away those happy memories. The ones where my father sat up with me until midnight studying for a test or how he tried all different combinations to get the perfect volcanic eruption for my science project.
Except I couldn’t wish away those things. Couldn’t turn my father into an irredeemable villain. That’s what I figured out, sitting on the floor of my childhood bedroom.
My father had been a father during my childhood. That was separate from the kind of husband he was. However fucked-up that was, it was true. Now that I knew what kind of husband he was, I couldn’t revise my entire history to make it so he was a terrible father.
Nor could I use that information to jeopardize my own future.
I loved my father.
