When I make it back home, I check the mailbox before looking up at the sound of a car pulling up. I smile at Clinton as he pulls in behind my car in the driveway. Looking back down at the mail in my hand, I sort through the bullshit and what's important. Sliding the new ads I have behind what I actually want to open, knowing I’m going to toss them in the trash because, let’s be real, I never actually use the coupons no matter how hard I try.
One envelope catches my attention. It's black with gold calligraphy on the front. It's addressed from The Future Mr. and Mrs. Reyes, and my heart drops. I don't understand how my dad could leave something so important out of our conversation or even his recent texts, and now I’m not enough to include in his new life.
Did he not want me to know about this? Then why would he send me an invitation? What else could it be? Memories of feeling like I lost my dad in the divorce begin to resurface as I open the thick envelope.
My eyes water as I peer at the crisp, white invitation, reading about a union I should have already been privy to.
It doesn't matter that I received an invite, not when I should have heard it from him first. Why the hell does something like this trigger me so badly? All the birthday parties I had hoped he’d be at. All the school recitals he missed because of what happened. I know I was angry with him but...Tears stream down my face, and I feel dizzy from anger, from past hurt bubbling over.
I can hear Clinton speaking, but I’m solely focused on the invitation I’ve got tightly fisted as my chest heaves. Another oversight. Another moment where I feel like I’m simply an observer in my father’s life. I can hear the steps on the stone walk as Clint comes up behind me, wrapping his hands around my waist.
“Hey, beautiful, I thought you would be napping the day away by now.” His smooth voice gives me enough reprieve that I lean into him, allowing his presence to calm me enough so I can say something.
“Clint,” I squeak out as I turn into his chest. “I–I...”
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” The concern in his voice causes me to look at his face, knowing tears are running down my cheeks. “Hey hey, baby. Tell me what’s going on. First, let’s get into the house. Give you some privacy.” Clinton ushers me to the door, and I quickly unlock it, thankful Waffles is cuddled up somewhere inside and not ready to bolt the moment I open the door.
We walk over to the couch and sit, his hands stroke away the tears from my face. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“My dad…I mean…I got…” A silent sob chokes me. I’m angry at myself for even being disappointed with my father, who continues to prove to me that maybe he simply isn’t worth building a relationship with.
“Dove, I need you to take a few deep breaths with me.” I listen for his deep breaths and inhale along with him.
“Breath in, two, three, four. Out, two, three, four.” I follow his instruction, thankful he’s here to help me through this. “Tell me what happened, baby.”
“I’m trying so hard to establish a real relationship with my father because I want one, and I had hoped he did too.” Handing Clinton the wrinkled invitation, I continue, “I don't understand how he couldn’t share something like this with me. Here I was forgoing love, and he has all but moved on and found someone to spend his life with, having missedout on most of mine. I feel like some kind of forgotten pit stop.
“This feels like another way to push me away. I thought we would grow closer but sending me, his fucking daughter, an invite in the mail without even telling me a single thing about hisnew bridefeels shitty. God, I feel like an idiot for being so upset.”
“Have you talked to your dad yet?” His question surprises me but the calm, soothing nature of his tone lets me answer without reservation.
“No, I saw it and was pulled right back into all his absences. How can he think it’s okay to just—” Balling up my fists, I lean my head back slightly, trying to quell the angry tears wanting to overtake me. “I’m sorry I-I didn't mean to bring you into all this.”
“We’re in this together. It’s only us. No running, right?” I take a deep breath as he rubs his thumb in small circles against my inner thigh. Not in a “I want to take your clothes off”type of way but an “I’m here with you”kind of way, and it melts the last reservation I have about us.
So instead of sugarcoating my sorrow and guilt, I let it out. “When my parents separated, I was terrible to him. I was so angry, because I thought he was the reason why our family fell apart. I gave him all of my anger and pain until he didn't want me anymore.” I hiccup, explaining through tears. “He was my hero, my whole world, and he abandoned me. I was too young to understand, but I shouldn't have had to try to understand.”
“And then I get this in the fucking mail,” I say, gesturing to the invitation. “I thought after our brunch and talking here and there, we were ready to try to build our relationship, but I guess I was wrong.”
“Why is that exactly, Dove? Is this not a way to keep you in his life?” he asks me, and I don't really know how to answer.
“Why wouldn't he tell me this when we met? Why hide it? I didn't even know he was with someone because I’m not a part of his life. Whynot tell me then?” I ask out loud, not wanting Clinton to answer; these questions are not really for him. “It just feels like I’m an afterthought, again. I’m his daughter. I should not find out he's getting married through an invite that’s been shipped to who knows how many people. It feels like a slap in the face.”
Clinton squeezes my thigh gently, two times, getting my attention and effectively pulling me out of a spiral. “I know it hurts, but before we assume the worst let’s call him. Give him a real chance to explain himself becauseyoudeserve to know those answers.”
“I…Okay.” For a second, I'm surprised I agreed so quickly. I simply don't want this hurt anymore. I pull my phone out of my pocket with shaky hands, staring at it before opening his contact and calling him. I contemplate hanging up after the first ring, but he answers.
“Mija! I’m so glad you called. I was just thinking about you.” My dad’s voice is full of joy, and I recoil. I want to be angry at his obliviousness, but I just promised to hear him out. Another squeeze urges me forward.
“Dad, do you have a minute to talk?” My voice is shaky, pain clearly evident
“Are you okay, Paloma?” he asks. I can hear a metal chair scraping on concrete, and the noise in the background of the call lessens. “What’s wrong?”
“I got your invitation,” I spit out, voice hitching at the end.
“Oh, you received italready?” His question falls flat. He and I both know why I’m so upset.
“Yeah, I did. I want to say it's wonderful news, but I didn’t even know you were with someone in the first place. Why didn't you tell me?”
