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It stops today!
I can’t hope to fix what I have with Samantha and her demons if I can’t face my own. I won’t be treated like a failure by him any longer.
The door creaks open, revealing my father behind it. His tired eyes meet mine. My heart starts hammering in my chest, and I instinctively rub the skin over it.
But then I realize it's not fear. I’m not afraid of him.
“Dad,” I finally manage to say.
“Well, look who decided to stop by,” he says, sounding a little surprised.
I step inside, and he closes the door behind me. We move to the living room and I take a seat on the couch as he takes an armchair across from me.
“Where is Mom?” I ask. She is always the first one to greet me.
“Talking to the neighbors out back,” he gestures with his thumb to the back of the house.
I don’t say anything for a while, trying to think of how I should approach what I have to say to him. “Dad,” I begin, my voice firm but vulnerable, “we need to talk.”
“You know, you should be careful. Those damn reporters have been snooping around like a bunch of bloodhounds on a scent. You need to set things straight again by getting back to practice and winning us another championship this year. You're not doing enough to?—”
“Enough, Dad!” I interrupt him firmly.
His eyes turn stern. “Don’t you raise your voice at me, boy.”
“You’re not listening to me!” I shoot back. “You never have. Nothing I say or do is ever good enough for you.”
He stammers, “I never said?—”
I cut him off again. “Yes, you do. Mom made excuses for you all the time, saying that it’s the only way you know how to treat a son, because that is how Grandpa used to be with you. But didn’t it hurt your feelings, Dad, when he said those things to you?”
He’s taken aback by my confrontation and my question, but at least I see him thinking about it, looking within himself. His brows turn down with concentration, and possibly a bit of dismay as well.
“Around others, you speak about me like I'm your world. As if you couldn’t be happier,” I continue, choosing my words carefully. “But when you talk to me—no,atme—you treat me like a child, and like I’m never good enough.”
His shoulders slump and his chest seems to deflate. He sits forward in the chair, and brings his hands up to cover his face.
“I swore … I swore to myself,” he says softly, and I’m barely able to make out the words muffled by his palms. But then he raises his head away from them, looking at me with pleading eyes. “I swore as a kid that I would never treat my family that way one day. And yet, I did. I got so used to it growing up. But you, you never cried, you never got angry or said anything. I never knew it affected you like that. I always thought I was just pushing you to be the best you can be, son.”
The horror in his eyes is very real. He truly never thought he was doing anything wrong. The behavior became such a norm to him as a child, he forgot how much it hurt him, and adopted the same treatment toward his own son.
I sigh. “Dad,” I begin, but he puts up a hand to stop me.
“Asher, I'm sorry,” he says, his voice heavy with regret. “I know I’ve put additional stress on you, especially throughout your career, but I never meant to burden you. I just want to see you keep being the best man you can be—and to become more than I ever could.”
“I know, Dad.” This isn’t an easy conversation, but it's one that I need to see through. “But there are times when what you say really hurts me bad.”
He pales, but there’s understanding in his eyes. “You're right, Asher,” he admits. “And I’m sorry. I hope you know how very proud I’ve always been of you. Football star or no, you’re more than enough, son.”
We both sit there for a while, letting the conversation settle within our hearts. Understanding for him and a release for me.
Soon, my mom comes in. After some much-needed hugs, she makes us a hearty breakfast. We chat and catch up as we eat, and it feels like I’ve come home—better. I no longer feel like I need to tiptoe around my dad.
At about nine, I excuse myself and step out of the house to try to reach Sam again. But instead of simply standing outside, taking my phone out, and dialing her number, my legs start leading me to the one place I forgot to look.
When I arrive at Mrs. Kendall’s home, I’m surprised to see who is already there.
“Hey Jaxson, Knox,” I call out in greeting. “You guys know you're supposed to be making the house better, right? Not making things worse,” I tease.
