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“That’s not what I meant…”
“Then how did you mean it, Dad? Because to me, it sounded pretty much like you’re kicking me out of the house. Again.”
Fire blazes in his dark eyes. They’re so similar to mine. It’s almost like I’m looking at my reflection in the mirror. And just the thought of it has me taking a step back.
I wasnothinglike my father.
“I didn’t kick you out of the house. You were the one who chose to leave.”
“Because you gave me an ultimatum!” I yell, pointing my finger at him. My heavy breathing is the only sound filling the room. Even the horses have calmed down, sensing something’s going on. “I could either stay and bend to your demands, or I could go and play football. You can’t deny that’s what happened.”
Dad’s jaw clenches, the vein in his forehead throbbing visibly. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that, young man. I’m still your father.”
“Well, I’m not the eighteen-year-old kid who’s afraid of you any longer, and I don’t have to take your crap.”
Dad snorts. “As if there was a day in your life when you were afraid of me.”
My throat bobs as I swallow the knot that seems to be perpetually stuck there when I’m around my father.
That’s where he has it wrong. I was always afraid of him; always afraid of the reaction to something I did or chose would cause, always afraid to tell him exactly how I felt because of the fear that I’d be rejected, or deemed not good enough. Because that’s always been the case. I was never good enough.
Not for my family.
And certainly not for my father.
“You don’t know shit, Dad.” And if that wasn’t the saddest truth, I don’t know what was.
Turning around, I grab the pitchfork and pick up another bunch of dirty straw, tossing it into a wheelbarrow as I quickly scan the space for any other spots that need to be cleaned but come out empty. Tossing the pitchfork into the wheelbarrow, I grab the handles and start for the door, but Dad gets in my way.
“You can’t do the job half-assedly, Miguel.” He grabs the pitchfork, shaking his head in that disapproving manner that makes me feel like I’m ten again.
Never good enough.
Not at school.
Not at the ranch.
And the only thing I was good enough at, he never cared to learn or give two craps about.
“Whatever,” I mutter letting go of the handles. The wheelbarrow falls on the ground with a loudthudas I stomp toward the door.
I was so done with all of this.
“Leave, of course! Because that’s what you’re a master at, Miguel. Leaving.”
Clenching my hands into fists, I turnaround to face him. “Because you made me, Dad! You are the reason why I left! And I’m starting to regret coming back at all.”
If I hadn’t come back, I would never have seen Rebecca again.
I’d have never found out what had happened.
I’d have never had to face my father and his disdain ever again.
If only I stayed away, like I promised myself I would do, none of this would have happened. I’d still be happy and focused on football back in Austin.
For a split second, I see something flash on his face. Regret? Doubt? Surprise? The fuck if I know. It’s not like this is the first time we’ve had this exact same fight.
But then, quicker than you can blink, it’s gone.
