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“Did he give you a reason why he didn’t tell you?”
I didn’t add myself to the equation because we both knew I didn’t factor into his decisions or actions.
“He didn’t want to get my hopes up in case it didn’t work out.” Mom paused again, and I could sense her discomfort. She didn’t like being in the middle, defending my father’s constant dismissal of me and my life, and acting as a buffer during our strained interactions.
Deep down, I knew she was holding out for the day he realized that life was too short to live in the past, drowning inwhat-ifsandcould have beensbecause he made her feel like she’d failed him too.
He’d wanted a son. Planned his entire life around the baby boy my mom was supposed to be growing inside. Only to be handed a baby girl in the delivery room. And with it, an eternal disappointment.
The disappointment he’d refused to let me forget for the last eighteen years.
Pain rolled through me. The kind of pain that lived inside you, festering in your soul, slowly eating its way into the very fiber of your being.
“Harper, baby?”
“I’m okay, Mom.” Because my father’s opinion of me didn’t define me. I was a good person with hopes and dreams and aspirations.
“I wish things were different, sweetheart. You know that. But your father is”—an asshole,I bit my lip, trapping the words—“a complicated man.”
“Yeah. I’ve got to go. I’m starting some volunteer work today, and I need to head inside.”
“I’m proud of you, Harper Rose. I hope you know that.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll call you soon, okay? Love you.”
“Love you too, sweetheart.”
We hung up, and I gave myself a second to compose myself.
When I was younger, it was easy to make excuses for her complicit behavior. James Dixon was the love of her life. Her husband and the father of her only child, the only child they would ever have. But as I grew, I realized that Mom didn’t like to rock the boat. She liked a quiet life. An easy life. And as her excuses about my father’s overt disappointment in me stacked up over time, so too did my frustration toward her.
I checked my reflection in the mirror and quickly pulled my hair into a loose ponytail over one shoulder. Then I climbed out of my car and made my way inside.
“Welcome to Rushton Community Center. How can I help you?” The receptionist smiled.
“I’m here to meet Jet about the volunteering opportunity.”
“Ah yes, you must be Harper”—she scanned the clipboard on her desk—“I’ve got you down right here.”
“That’s me.”
“Perfect, take a seat, and I’ll let the boss know you’re here.”
“Thanks.”
I moved to the row of chairs along the wall and picked up a leaflet about the center. A frisson of anticipation went through me as I scanned the photos of various groups and activities they provided here. My eye had snagged on a write-up on the inclusive access group for children and young people they ran, when an older man appeared through the double doors and made a beeline for me.
“Harper?” he said.
“That’s me.” I stood.
“It’s good to meet you. Let’s head to my office and get started, shall we?”
“Sounds good.”
“Did you bring all the information we asked for?”
“ID and references? Yes.”
