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Arching a brow, I purse my lips and deliberately let the silence build some more. Rupert is the first to squirm and look away. Good. His gaslighting isn’t going to work this time. As much as it hurts to ride this prickly wave of guilt—my inherent need to please him still in strong force—standing up to him is a good thing.
“We both know that isn’t true, and I could give examples. Just think about tonight…Felix.” My arms fold over my chest in a need for added protection. “More times than not, I don’t have a choice. And if what I want doesn’t match your vision, you’re disappointed in me.”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip and I war with myself, with whether or not to continue. I’ve already said so much, more than I thought I would. But this is all or nothing. “It feels like you punish me if I don’t go along with what you want…by withholding your attention. Your love.”
Mom gasps, eyes wide and mouth agape, as if I’ve assaulted her. But Dad, he stays still and quiet. His gaze never leaves mine, and I can’t help but think this feels like a game to see who will blink first.
He releases a long, frustrated sigh and blinks, shoulders sagging. “Well, that was never our intention.” He can no longer look at me.
I get it even though I hate it. We both know he isn’t being truthful. Hedoespunish me, and by extension, he’s trained Margot so well, she can read his mood and follow along without the two of them ever having a conversation about it.
Oh my God, I shouldn’t want to have anything to do with someone like that, but he’s my father. The only one I’ll ever have.
“If I ever made you feel that way, I’m sorry.” He pulls me into his arms, and I won’t deny that I need this.
He may not like what I’m doing or agree with it, but this hug…it’s a first step. It shows me he’s willing to work with me, and truthfully, that’s all I can ask for.
“Leighton, your father works very hard for what we have.” My mother strokes my hair, and though she means it to be soothing, I tense at her words.
Dad must pick up on my reaction because he stops my mother. “Margot, it’s true that all of this comes at a hefty price. I can see how Leighton might have felt like she didn’t have a say. But honey,”—he takes both my hands in his—“we can talk things through, always. We’ll hear you out even if we might not agree with you.”
My hands drop from his. “If I don’t agree with you, you make it known in not-so-subtle ways that there will be consequences.”
I’m prepared to delve into specific examples if they deny what I’m saying is true. But neither of them say anything. Both look at me like I’m a poor, lost lamb, someone who needs to be saved from herself.
Then it comes to me as clear as the blue sky or Tom’s eyes. I can have a relationship with my parents on my terms, but we may never be truly close.
They live in a world of make-believe where image is more important than substance. For this to work, I have to accept that. Likewise, I could mention all the times my father has kept me waiting or never bothered to show up. But, sadly, it would be pointless.
This is who he is. I’m finally resigned to the fact that my father’s work is paramount, and my mother’s world revolves around what my father wants. His work will always come first. My mom knows that. He does the same to her.
I do believe he loves us in his own way, as much as he is capable of, and there’s no point in demanding something from him that he can’t give.
It’s both heartbreaking and a relief to finally see the bitter truth for what it is. I wish it didn’t hurt so much and that things could be different. But I’m an adult and I have to stop wishing for things that aren’t possible.
Like my therapist said, it’s up to me to create boundaries around this relationship. Figure out what I’m willing to live with and what I won’t tolerate. It’s for my peace of mind.
The cactus-like truth pricks at my heart, but it doesn’t change the facts of the matter. I will no longer bend to their will.
30
LEIGHTON
After the countless unread texts sent to Tom between last night and this morning, I might have to face the fact that he’s done with me. I’m not sure what I did and if he even showed up last night. When we parted ways yesterday morning, everything seemed fine, good even.
And now, what really bothers me—and only adds to the burgeoning pang in my chest—is why won’t he answer my calls or respond to one of my far too many texts?
Tom isn’t one to ignore people even if he’s upset with them. He’s like a rare bird and believes in honesty and communication.
None of this makes sense. I want to fix this, if only I can figure out how.
Before knocking on the door to his house—he isn’t home; I’m here to see August—I type out one final text. I shouldn’t. The sight of all my unread texts gives me hives. Clearly, he’s sending me a message. He doesn’t want to talk to me.
And with that thought, I pound the backspace button with my thumb and watch the cursor eat all the words in the text bubble. I’m already pathetic enough. I’m done texting him.
The last text I sent him was eight hours ago, the first thing I did when I woke up at six this morning. Still dazed with sleep, I feverishly lunged for my phone, hoping to find at least one reply from him. Anything to explain last night. I would’ve even settled for one simple word—sorry.
Instead, nothing.
