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Why did he put up with it? Did he not think himself worthy of more? It boggles me how someone could be with a person who treated them as if they didn’t matter, as if everything they did wasn’t good enough. Even in love, a person should only tolerate so much. How did Dad love her, or even like her, when she treated him like garbage?
But asking myself these questions will get me nowhere. The only person that can answer them is him.
I need to call him. I need to talk with him. Both I have avoided, but can’t put off any longer.
Swiping my phone from the table, I rise from the stool and step away from the painting. Regardless of the direction this call takes, I don’t want negative energy tainting this piece. Not Shelly.
I trek down the stairs and head for the kitchen. With Shelly at work, the house is quiet. Too quiet. Months ago, the stillness of my house, my space, was something I craved. Solace in solitude. Peace among the chaos. An abrupt shift from my busy art mind.
Now, the silence makes my skin crawl. I don’t like when Shelly leaves. Although her earthy floral scent lingers and I see her touch in every room, I miss her energy. Miss her sweet voice and soft words. The way she brightens a room without effort.
Her absence is why I seclude myself in the studio all day. When she works, so do I.
I fill a glass with water and reheat leftovers for lunch. As the microwave counts down to zero, I unlock my phone, press my father’s contact in the list, and stare at the screen.
He isn’t as bad as her, yet he is.
A shrill beep snaps my attention from my phone. I carry lunch to the dining room table and sit in my usual seat. At the heart of the table sits a small vase of peonies. Fresh flowers are a simple touch Shelly has added to almost every room in the house.
I ignore lunch to stare at the delicate pink petals for a beat. So soft, so elegant. Quintessential and very much Shelly. Even in her absence, she is here—her warmth and heart—swathing me in strength and support and love.
Unlocking my phone again, my finger hovers the phone icon as I pick at the pasta primavera.
Now or never. Just get it over with.
Before I lose the nerve, I press the icon and lift the phone to my ear. With it being the middle of the day, Dad should be at work and nowhere near Mom. The phone rings once, twice, then he answers.
“Devlyn?”
“Hey, Dad.”
Silence stretches between us, but it doesn’t unnerve me, not like with Mom. Dad and I have always had this unspoken language. A side effect of our reticent nature. Neither of us feels the need to fill every second with unnecessary speech. Sometimes, the most profound things come about in silence.
“How are you?” His question not abnormal, but his tone is hesitant. Unsure. Troubled.
I stab a piece of pasta and carrot. “Good. You?”
Shelly said Dad pieced together she was pregnant, but never stated as much before leaving the shop. Until he says or asks, I won’t touch the topic. Until I know where Dad’s head is, I will keep all things Shelly related in the background. To protect her and the baby.
“Could be better.” His heavy sigh reaches me through the phone. Tugs at the sympathetic heartstrings I have for him. “Devlyn, I…” He goes silent for a moment, but I don’t interject. Don’t butt into the words he wants to say, but has difficulty vocalizing. While he thinks, I eat. “I have some news.” The lack of inflection in his voice gives nothing away.
“Okay,” I drawl out the word.
“I asked your mother for a divorce.”
The bite in my mouth goes down the wrong pipe as I go into a coughing fit. I pull the phone away from my ear, beat a fist to my sternum, and cough until the stray noodle dislodges.
When I bring the phone back to my ear, he asks, “Are you okay?” True concern laces his voice.
I cough again, then sip my water. “Fine,” I croak out. “What brought this on? The divorce, I mean.”
While Dad sits quiet on the other end, I drink more water. I push the food away with the intent to hear him out and not go into another choking fit. Who knows what other surprises he will hit me with.
“It’s been a long time coming,” he finally says, a hint of relief in his words. “When your mother and I met, life was different.Wewere different.” He audibly exhales. “She changed after we said I do. I’d been so in love with her at the time that I didn’t give attention to the little signs. When we found out she was pregnant, those little signs got bigger, but I blamed them on hormones. I blamed it on the worry that comes with impending parenthood.” He goes silent and I picture him hanging his head. “But it wasn’t that at all. As much as I wanted to leave then, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t abandon you and let you suffer alone.”
Dad stayed married to Mom more than half his adult life… for me. Wow. Just… wow. I don’t know whether to thank him or slap him.
Both of our lives could have been polar opposites of what they are today. It is quite possible neither of us would feel emotionally annihilated had he left sooner. Yes, most courts side with the mother in custody cases. But I question whether or not my mother would’ve wanted me without my father. Sure, she may have molded me more in her likeness had he not been around, but I can’t picture herwantingme around. Period. Unless she had something to gain.
