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My father looks up from his ledgers, shuffling uncomfortably, as if he’s sure he’s misheard me.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why haven’t you left? You didn’t think Zora or I were ever coming back. Why didn’t you leave?”
My father sets down his ledgers, shutting them. A bloom of dust shoots out, dispersing in the air.
“Your mother isn’t well enough for me to just pick up and take her somewhere new, son.”
I run my hands through my hair, frustrated at my father’s avoidance of the question. “No, I mean why haven’t you left Mother?”
My father’s throat bobs, and for the first time since I’ve arrived, true, unfiltered concern flickers in his eyes. “Why would you think I’d leave your mother, Nox?”
I sigh, slumping back against the chair. “How long has she been like this?” It comes out as more of a demand than I intend it to, but everything I do lately seems to be following a similar pattern.
“It comes and goes,” is all he says, then thoughtfully he adds, “It’s worse in the dark months.”
“You live in Mystral, Father. The dark months make up most of the year.”
Father sighs. “I’ve tried to convince her to move somewhere brighter. Even Dwellen. But she always says she wants to be right here when you and Zora find your way back home.”
The bile in my stomach curdles.
“But you didn’t think either of us were ever coming back.”
My father frowns. “My heart hadn’t given up hope. For either of you. But no. I had no expectation that I would ever see you again.”
“So you stayed for nothing.”
“Your mother is not nothing, Nox.”
“She’s a shell.”
My father’s chest heaves, and I can’t tell if it’s in frustration or anguish, or a bit of both. “What is this about?”
“I just…I just think you have the potential to be happy. I saw the way you smiled at Jean today, and I thought—”
“Jean’s not my wife.”
“No, but how long has it been since Mother has been that for you, either?”
My father’s jaw goes slack, discomfort spreading all over his face. “Are you telling me you want me to leave your mother?”
Agony ripples through me. Because he’s right. That’s exactly how my words sound. “No. No, that’s not what I want at all. I just…I just don’t want to see you unhappy, that’s all.”
“My, well. Thank you, son. What a joy it is to have a child so much wiser than his own parents, that he can spend a single night with them and fix all their problems instantly.”
A shard of guilt pierces my gut, and I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant to do.”
“Hm,” is all my father says before returning to his ledgers.
“Do you still love her?” I hate how childish the question sounds when I ask it. Hate the way it pelts me with guilt, with the anguish of what I lost with Blaise. The feelings that were stripped from me, the ones I can no longer grasp, though they leave behind a gaping hole, a numbness I’m not sure can be filled.
My father peers out from over his book. Then he gestures toward the roast, my mother’s favorite meal. That’s why he went to the market this morning—to get the ingredients. He motions to the bowl left untouched after my mother refused to leave their room. “What exactly do you think love is, son, that you would even feel the need to ask that question?”
Shame washes over me, making it difficult to formulate the words. “You just don’t seem happy, that’s all. I don’t…I don’t want it to be because of me that you’re not happy.”
My father’s face seems to soften at that, like he’s taking pity on me somehow. And again I feel like a boy, readying to squirm underneath his scrutiny. Like I’ve been caught in the act of something I knew better than to do.
