"Are you okay?" she asked suddenly, her voice gentle.
The question caught me completely off guard. "What?"
"Are you okay? Something's wrong. I can tell."
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
She was quiet for a moment, just watching me with those perceptive eyes that saw past every defense I'd carefully constructed. Then she nodded slowly. "Okay. If you say so."
"I'm fine," I repeated, trying to convince one or both of us. "And I'm sorry for snapping. For being unfair. You're right—the mail and Emma's homework aren't the actual problem."
"I know," she said simply.
I turned around to leave. But my feet remained frozen.
So I turned back around.
"Did you love your father?" I asked abruptly. "Before he left?"
She blinked, clearly not expecting that question. "I... I don't know. I didn't hate him. But I barely remember what I felt. He was just there. Until he wasn't."
I nodded, staying quiet for a moment.
Then the words slipped out before I could stop them.
“I didn’t like my father.”
It felt strange saying it aloud. Like admitting something shameful. Something you’re supposed to keep hidden.
“My mother died giving birth to Emma.” This was a memory I hadn't visited in years. “There were a lot of complications. Emma never got to meet her.”
Mireya said nothing. She just listened with complete attention.
"My father looked at Emma like she had taken something from him. He never said it explicitly, but he communicated it in a thousand other ways. He never held her. Never comforted her when she cried. He'd just stare at her with this... cold resentment. Or if he was too irritated, he'd call me to handle it." I leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "When it became too unbearable, he hired a nanny. That gave him permission to spend more time away from home. I think he loved our mother so much that he ended up hating us for existing."
The words kept flowing, years of suppressed truth.
“Emma was seven when she asked me why Dad didn’t love her.” My throat went tight and dry. “My heart ached when she asked me that, I felt like a complete failure.”
Mireya's eyes softened with unshed tears, but she didn't interrupt.
“I told her he did love her. That he was just sad about Mom. That it wasn’t her fault.” I rubbed my face roughly. “I lied to her. Because the truth was worse. The truth was he blamed a baby for something she had no control over.”
The words poured out now—years of them, festering like an infected wound.
“He would bring home different women every few months. Emma would try so hard to make them like her. To make him notice her. She'd draw pictures, make cards, try to be absolutely perfect." My voice cracked. "And he was so exhausted by her efforts that he sent her to boarding school instead."
I could still see Emma standing in the driveway with her little suitcase, trying not to cry because she thought if she cried, he'd be even more disappointed.
“She would write him letters from school every week.‘Dear Dad. Guess what I learned today. Guess what I drew in art class. Guess what.’” I looked at Mireya. “He never wrote back. Not once.”
Mireya’s eyes were shining with tears.
"When she got sick—when she was dying from heart failure and I was so terrified I'd lose her—he visited the hospital exactlytwice. Twice in six months of critical illness. Both times with whatever girlfriend he had at the moment. He'd stay for maybe an hour, check his watch repeatedly, then leave."
My hands shook violently. I shoved them into my pockets.
"She almost died. And he couldn't even be bothered to stay. Couldn't sit with her, hold her hand, tell her she mattered to him."
