Anya
I don’t want to talk about it. I just didn’t want to be a thing, I guess. Like where you felt like you were walking on eggshells around me?
Anya
Sorry to dampen the mood.
He texts back lightning fast.
Matteo
You didn’t! I’m glad you felt like you could say anything at all.
Matteo
That’s a good sign, you know? I have a feeling we’re going to be great friends, Anya Morozov.
Something like excitement rushes over me, a little chill running up my arms. I’m proud of myself for saying something. It’s an extremely unfamiliar feeling. But a good one.
Anya
That would be nice, Matteo Moretti.
The sound of the back door swinging shut pulls my attention from my phone, and I look up to find my father walking towardme. He’s clutching a steaming mug of coffee, the salt-and-pepper stubble on his jaw yet to be shaven this morning. His short dark hair hasn’t been combed yet, and his casual clothes are wrinkled. He looks tired but relaxed, a familiar sight for me in the early mornings.
No one ever sees my father like this. No one but me, and occasionally my uncles.
Taking the seat next to me on the patio, he looks at my phone in my lap and back up at my face.
“Feeling okay this morning?” he asks. Dad always checks in with me when he first sees me—asking some version of the same question without fail.
“I’m okay,” I confirm, meaning it. “You?”
“Good,” he confirms before taking a sip of his coffee.
Birds chirp, filling the small gap in conversation as he drinks.
“You talking to him?” The rough edge to his voice sounds more like it’s from sleep than from any sort of emotion. “The Moretti boy?”
“Yes.” I lift one of my legs up to prop my head on my knee. My silky pajama pants offer a soft comfort. “I messaged him for the first time this morning, and he’s been replying.”
He hums, the deep sound more like a grunt. “Do you feel like your routine is being disrupted?”
“I thought I might, but no,” I admit honestly. “I don’t feel like I have to respond. I want to, but if I’m in the middle of something, I don’t think I’ll feel the compulsion to drop my routine to text back. He seems patient.”
Dad watches my face, nodding at the sincerity he finds. “Let me know if that changes.”
“I will.”
And I don’t think I’m lying.
I understand his concern. I’ve put him through hell for these past few years. I wanted to die more days than I wanted to bealive, and I tried to make that happen more than once. He’s done everything in his power to help me, and to get me towantthat help.
It’s because of his determination and his love for me that I’m alive at all. That I have my diagnoses, medication, therapy, and a routine that helps me feel stable. I know he blames himself for what happened, but I could never.
Even when I hated myself and hated breathing, I could never bring myself to hate my father. I resented him for saving me over and over again. For not letting me end my suffering permanently, but I never hated him. I always understood, even in my deepest, darkest state of mind. I’ve always loved my father, and I always will.
“What are you two talking about?” He looks hesitant to ask, like he isn’t sure if he should.
