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“Yes,” the word travels on a shaky exhale, and as soon as it enters the world something remarkable happens. It’s over. I did it. He knows. And…he doesn’t mean enough to me to keep on caring what that means. “So, what are you gonna, Dad? Huh? You gonna hit me?” I lift my hands, push on his shoulders.
He stumbles back a step.
“Or can’t you hit someone your own size?”
My dad turns his head, narrows his bloodshot eyes as if the mere sight of me repulses him.
“You gonna tell all your friends? You gonna stop caring about me? Well, you know what, Dad… you haven’t given a flying fuck about me since I was born, so why start now?”
“I just wanted you to be fucking normal, that’s all!” he yells. Or tries to. His voice isn’t as stable as it once was. Doesn’t hold the same weight. Offer the same level of terror. “Bloody told your mother, I did. Letting you play with fucking dolls and shit. Getting you those fucking posters of fucking men for your room. And you wonder why I tried to set you right? She did this, that barmy fucking slag. This is all her doing.”
For God’s sake. “Come off it, Dad. She hasn’t been in my life for years. I don’t even know where she is!”
“Moorland Cemetery,” he says. “Two years ago. Liver failure. Sorry, lad, did I forget to mention it?”
It’s a boot to my stomach.
He’s lying, is my first thought, but then I realise it’s entirely plausible. She certainly drank enough. Regardless, my dad speaks with such pleasure that this is the moment I know there’s no way back for us. There’s nothing to go back to. Nothing to repair. My father and I have never had a relationship, and we will never have one. For thirty-seven years I’ve hoped. I’ve wondered whose fault it is. I’ve blamed myself, my parents, society, the entire world. I’ve scoured every inch of my mind for reasons. I’ve felt everything from guilt and longing, abandonment and fear, to impenetrable hatred. All this time, I’ve been afraid of losing love and respect from someone who was never capable of offering it.
And on this night, I accept it. I wasn’t blessed with good parents, but I’m not alone. And that was it. My fear. I see it now. I’m not afraid of bruises that will heal or insults that can be forgotten, but never being held. Never sharing my thoughts with someone. Never catching another person’s smile.
And my father doesn’t have the power to take those from me.
Somehow, love found me along the way. In my thirty-seven years I’ve been taught to love in all its forms by the purest people, and they’re still with me. They’ll stay with me. Everyone who matters knows who I am, and they accept me. Even if they’re still working their way through trying to be happy for me and Laurence, they accept us.
I find myself chuckling, laughing in the face of the pathetic old drunk in front of me. Laurence was right. My father is a coward. If I was a lanky twelve-year-old child, I’d have been knocked on my arse by now. Instead, I stand tall, proud that I’ve failed at the expectations of what this lowlife human considers a man, and prepare to have a final conversation with the person who used to be my dad.
“Go home, Graham.” As I say it, I notice an older woman with jet black hair and excessively large, hooped earrings watching on in horror. Brenda, I assume. “Take her with you, and don’t bother coming near me or my family again.”
He snorts a cackle, shaking his head. “You’ll be dead in a year!”
I take Laurence’s hand, try and ignore the crowd of party guests who’ve gathered to watch the show, and start walking away.
“Mark my words! Fucking AIDS or some shit!”
We keep going. Don’t stop. Don’t speak, although Laurence squeezes my hand, which tells me everything I need to know. He’s got me. He loves me. I’m okay.
Only when I’m back inside does the adrenaline start to fizzle out. I turn off before the function room, end up in some kind of storeroom that’s probably only authorised for staff. There are several chairs amongst the chaos of boxes. I drop onto the first I come to.
“What do you need?” Laurence asks. He’s on his knees in front of me, cradling my hands on my lap.
“Just this,” I say. “Just a minute.”
He nods, holds my hands a little tighter. “I know how difficult that was. I’m proud of you.”
His words break the seal of my lips, the shock of them forcing an unsteady exhale from my lungs. I start to cry. Just quietly. I don’t sob, make a scene. But my eyes fill with water. My chest feels like it’s folding in on itself. I let it happen, don’t try to stop it.
