I didn't even think I would care.
After I sold my apartment, I moved back home, the only place I had to go, back to my childhood bedroom, where the walls were still painted that hot pink and lined with old boy band posters. A couple of my most prized pageant crowns were collecting dust on the shelves.
My father kept himself holed up in his office or his bedroom.
Finally, he acknowledged my presence. He called me into his office to speak to me, like I was fifteen years old again and aboutto be grounded for skipping class to go to the mall. We hadn't spoken since that day at the precinct, and I still felt a little shaky around him, his words from that day echoing in my head.
I stopped dead in my tracks when I walked in, immediately taking note of the half-packed boxes around the room—moving boxes. All the family pictures that were hung on the walls, and the newspaper and magazine articles featuringThe Cabots, were shoved into a box in the corner labeled JUNK.
My father sat behind his desk, reading glasses hanging loosely from his fingers. He pinched the bridge of his nose, taking deep breaths.
Like my mother, he looked like shit—days-old scruff on his jaw, rumpled Harvard T-Shirt hanging off him, gray streaking through his thinning blonde hair. A bottle of Glenfiddich sat half-empty on his desk, the tumbler beside it filled to the brim. He took a sip that sloshed over the rim, ignoring the spill on his shirt.
I gingerly sat down in the chair across his desk, peering at him. He looked exhausted. Defeated. Hollowed out.
You are my greatest failure.
He took a long swallow from his drink before he spoke, "The house is sold."
For a second, I thought I'd misheard him, then the words really sank in. It felt like the ground was falling away beneath me, and I gripped the arms of my chair to steady myself. "Where are we going?"
"Notwe. Just me. I'll be going overseas—Ireland," his expression went almost slack, his gaze unfocused as he murmured. "Claire and I always talked about retiring there."
The reminder of her made me flinch, and the wistfulness in his voice made me sick.
"Dad, but—what about me—"
"I've bailed you out," he cut in sharply, shaking his head."More times than I can count. To the detriment of everything. You're an adult, Elise. It's time to start acting like one."
I sat there, eyes wide as I stared at him. My brain wasn't moving as fast as I needed it to move. Floundering, I couldn't think of anything to say, of how to get this back under my control.
"I'm giving you the BMW," he told me, in a tone as if he were granting me mercy. "I'm selling the rest of the cars."
"What... what about us? Our family?"
He actually laughed, like I had said something truly hilarious. He tossed the rest of the liquid back, coughing slightly and trying to get himself under control.
"Family. We need to stop pretending that this was ever a family."
"Did you ever love me?" I asked him suddenly. I didn't know. It didn't mean anything to me personally; it was something I could use to understand why. I really don't know why I cared so much about his answer.
He looked down at the glass, grabbed the bottle, and refilled it once more. He studied it as if it were interesting, swirling it around. The silence stretched long and uncomfortable before he admitted softly, "I tried."
I felt nauseous, I worried I would throw up right on his desk. I realized this was the most authentic I had ever seen my father. We were a family, all playing our parts—father, mother, daughter. But we never allowed each other to see our true selves.
This was my father, and I felt as if I were meeting him for the first time.
"I tried so hard to look at you and feel proud, to feel that joy that people talk about when speaking of their children... but all I could see when I looked at you was the look on Claire's face. How she looked at me when I told her about your mother, about you.How she cried, how she collapsed, how she screamed at me to get out. Looking at you is like sticking my hand on a hot stove."
All the air leaves my lungs at once, and I'm gripping the chair so hard my fingers ache.
"I know it wasn't your fault, I know you didn't ask to exist. I know that it's my fault you do in the first place," he said, his voice a little more gentle now, as if the tone would take away the sting. "I know that. And yet..."
"And yet I'm still yourgreatest failure," I finished for him, spitting the words out through gritted teeth, my throat burning. I was screaming at myself not to cry. I hadn't cried in years, and I wasn't about to start now—not in front of him.
"We went on too long pretending to be something we're not. So, I'm done pretending," he sighed.
He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a large envelope, and slid it across the desk. I snatched it from him, hoping the sharp edge would cut his fingers. Peeking into it, I see it's all my personal documents—my birth certificate, my Social Security card, some bank documents, and the car keys.
