Eventually I must drop off, because it’s just starting to get light when I finally hear the front door open and close.
My phone tells me it’s way too early to confront him about where he’s been. It’s probably none of my business anyway. I close my eyes, sleep coming easier this time, now I know he’s home. We can talk later.
I wake with a start.
My heart pounds, and it must have been some awful nightmare because I’m sweating too.
“Jesus Christ.”
Thank fuck I can’t remember any of it. Scrubbing a hand through my hair, I debate showering first before going downstairs, but then I hear movement and I’m up, pulling on yesterday’s T-shirt, because talking to my dad can’t wait.
I make my way down and pause in the kitchen doorway. He’s sat at the table, head in one hand, and doesn’t so much as look up as I walk in and take the seat opposite him. “Dad?” The dreadI’d felt yesterday floods back in and it’s an effort to get the words out. “W-what’s wrong?”
He doesn’t move for what seems like an age, but then he slowly lifts his head to look at me, and my hearts drops. The man in front of me looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. Bloodshot eyes stare back at me, and the lost look in them makes me feel sick. “I’m so fucking sorry.” Despair radiates from him, wrapping around me and pulling me down too. “I don’t know what happened.” The words are barely audible, but the disbelief is clear. Doesn’t make it any better, though.
It’s the last thing I want to ask, but I need to know. “Tell me.”
His hand shakes as he reaches for the mug in front of him. The coffee in it looks cold, but it’s like he doesn’t even notice as he takes a sip. “I lost the house.”
I’m shocked speechless.
Literally have no words.
I sit with my mouth hanging open, gaping at him, hoping I heard him wrong, because his words make no sense. Silence stretches between us until I grind out a strangled, “How?”
He sighs heavily, like it hurts to inhale, and who knows, maybe it does. Maybe whatever he’s about to tell me cuts him up inside like I know it’s going to me. “I owed money. Enough that I needed time to get it together.” He holds a hand up before I can comment. “I know, okay. I was fucking stupid to get myself in that position. Iknow.”
I bite backthen why the fuck did you do it?but it’s hard to keep my temper under control. He must see it in my eyes, because he folds in on himself even further.
“I went to see them, to ask for some time to get the money together. I had the deeds to the house because I was going to take a loan out against it.” He looks up, snagging my gaze and flinching at whatever he sees there. “I only went to talk to them, I swear, Morgan. But the next thing I know they’re shaking meawake and—” A sob escapes, but I’m struggling to find a scrap of sympathy for him, because he’s brought this on himself.
And me by association.
“And what?” I sound cold and detached, so unlike me, but I don’t care. “Dad.” I want to reach over the table and shake the words out of him, and if he doesn’t hurry up and tell me, I just fucking might.
“They were holding this contract, or form thing, that I don’t remember signing, but my signature was there at the bottom of it, countersigned and everything. The stakes for the game of poker I’d apparently agreed to play.”
“And you wagered our fucking house?Mum’shouse?” Cold rage surges through me when he nods slowly.
“We have to be out by the end of the week.”
I’m seconds away from fucking killing him, so I do the only thing I can and push out of my seat, backing away until my shoulders hit the wall. I sink to my knees, head in my hands as the enormity of what he’s done sinks in. “It can’t be legally binding.” It can’t be. Who bets their fucking house in a card game? I grab my phone and start googling. Two minutes later I stand, holding it up in relief. “See. It says here that you can’t wager the deeds to your house in a card game. Gambling debts are usually not legally enforceable in court. You can say you were drunk and didn’t know what you were doing.”
He doesn’t look as relieved by this news as I expect him to be. Just tired. “You think I didn’t say that? You honestly think I sat there and happily handed over ourhome?”
Honestly? Yes. That’s exactly what I’m thinking.
He reads the truth in my face and slumps in his chair. “Christ. I’m sorry, Morgan. I’ve been a shit father if that’s what you believe.”
I don’t correct him at first. How can I with what he’s just told me. But truth be told, gambling habits aside, he’s always beenthere for me since mum died. I was sixteen when we lost her, could’ve easily gone off the rails, but he was a solid comfort in those first few years. Exactly what I needed him to be.
It’s only recently that he’s changed.
The late nights, the gambling.
Our fighting.
And it’s always about money.
