Page 94 of The Moment I Knew

But then I saw her face—a slight flash of remorse before she and Dad exchanged a knowing look—and I knew that my words had hit their target exactly. She knew about Mum. She knew about us. She just didn’t care.

Dad ran a hand through his hair, pacing now. “You’re twisting this. This isn’t about choosing anyone over anyone else.”

“Then why does it always feel like I’m the one who gets left out?” I demanded. “Why is it always me who understands and compromises and waits?”

He stopped pacing. “Because you’re mature. Because you can handle it.”

I stared at him. “So I get punished for that?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

Silence fell, thick and suffocating. The ticking clock on the wall sounded louder than ever, each second stretching unbearably long. Dad exhaled slowly, like he was trying very hard not to lose his temper. “I don’t know how to make you happy.”

“I’m not asking you to make me happy,” I said. “I’m asking you to show up.”

“I do show up!”

“Name one time,” I said, immediately, holding up a finger. “One time in the last five months where I was the priority.”

His mouth opened. Then closed.

Hilary shifted uncomfortably, moving toward Dad as she murmured, “This isn’t productive. She’s emotional right now.”

I turned on her. “Don’t call me emotional like that makes this less real.”

Dad raised his voice again. “Enough! You don’t get to talk to her like that in her own house.”

I flinched. Her house.

“So that’s it,” I said softly. “I don’t belong here.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, too quickly. “You know that.”

“I really don’t,” I said. “Because every time I come here, I feel like I’m intruding on something you’ve already moved on from.”

“That’s not true,” he insisted. “We want you here. Don’t we?” He looked to Hilary.

She nodded, a little stiffly. “Of course we do.”

I snorted. “And doesn’t that feel sincere?”

Hilary’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I don’t want you to say anything,” I said. “I want you to stop pretending this is something it isn’t.”

Dad rubbed at his temples. “Can we not do this right now?”

“When, then?” I asked. “When you’re too busy with the baby? When there’s literally no space left for me?”

“There will always be space in my life for you,” he insisted. “You know that.”

I let out a humourless laugh. “Do I?”

He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I gestured vaguely down the hall. “Where do you think I sleep when I stay here?”