He sighed. “Yeah.” He shook his head, suddenly looking every minute his age, his illness, his limited time . . . “But I loved her. I loved her spirit. She wasn’t always the way she was near the end. In the beginning, she was this beautiful girl who loved to dance in the rain. Full of life, full of joy and laughter.”

“I saw that side of her too, Dad.” I looked away from him, out the window where the Talbot land stretched before me. “I think it’s the only one I chose to remember.”

My father regarded me for a moment, looking at me in that sharp-eyed way of his that led me to believe he understood exactly what was going on in my head. Hell, maybe he did. Hadn’t he always?

“Is that why you began an affair with your secretary? Because my mother was leaving you?”

“I wasn’t having an affair with my secretary. I was hurting that day, weak. I thought your mother was out telling you she was leaving us. I kissed Moira because she was there and I was needy. I used her, and I regretted the hell out of it. She was a decent woman who I knew had what you’d call a crush on me, I guess. I just . . .” His voice trailed off, but he took a breath and continued. “Christ, she was there and I was so goddamned sad.”

I set the note down on the top of the manila folder and raked my hands through my hair, expelling a breath. “After my mother . . . why’d you let me think that was the reason she . . . did what she did?”

“Because you were destroyed, Brant. Finding her that way? And hell, for all intents and purposes it was because of that. Your mother’s reasoning wasn’t always sound, and she was self-centered. Something like that . . . she wouldn’t have worked through it reasonably.”

I stared at him, knowing exactly what he was saying, understanding, remembering. I looked away. “Was she crazy?” I asked softly.

“She went to a doctor once who diagnosed her with manic depression. He gave her some pills that made her practically catatonic. She hated it.” He sighed. “Truth is, I hated it too. She was . . . unpredictable, but at least she was there.”

I nodded, wondering for the first time in my life what it must have been like for him to love her. God, I’d never even considered it, hadn’t let myself remember the patience he’d had with her, the way he’d shrug off every batch of burnt cookies that she’d left in the oven because something else had caught her interest. The way he’d fashioned a leash for an injured baby possum because my mother had been beside herself with grief and insisted on raising it herself . . . for a couple of days. Then my father had taken over the raising of that possum, feeding it with an eyedropper until it was independent enough to be set free. He was always there for her. He always indulged her, took care of her messes, loved her despite them. Allowed her to live her life the way she needed to. Loved to. Just as a man who loved a woman should.

My father was a protector. Perhaps a misguided one, but a protector nonetheless.

I put my head in my hands, rubbing my temples, memories coming at me from every direction, flowing in like an unblocked stream. The force so strong it felt as if I were being knocked down, dragged along the sandy bottom. Why? Why had I dammed it up in the first place?

“I worried I was like her,” I breathed, the words rising to my mouth, unbidden.

“What?”

I blew out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in my body for years, decades. “Everyone always used to say how much I reminded them of her. How . . . full of life we both were . . . how wild, fun . . .” My voice trailed off as I stared unseeing at the wall. Afterward . . . after that day . . . I had shunned the part of myself I associated with her. Became the complete opposite not only for fear I’d turn into her, but also because then I’d have to acknowledge how she’d really been. And how afraid I was of turning into that other part. The part that scared me, the part that I . . . hated. Oh Christ. I hated it. I did. Hated how irrational she was, how disconnected. How . . . crazy.

I’d blocked her out entirely, afraid that in letting in some of the good, I’d have to also face the bad. And so I’d kept her in the back of my mind as a fuzzy image of reality, a mere shadow of who she’d really been. If anyone had dishonored my mother, it had been me.

I had to acknowledge my true feelings about Ethan before I could find peace, Isabelle had said. I don’t know what’s locked inside your heart, but you have to face it. It will be hard, but it will be worth it, I promise.

I let out a sharp hiss of breath. She had been right . . . because she always was. She’d seen me, she’d known what I was doing, what I’d been doing since I’d left this house, and she’d tried to help me. Only I’d been too blind, too fearful to listen to her, too stubborn to attempt change.

Even if I was like my mother, did I imagine I was powerful enough to control it by will alone? Had I thought I could hold it back by only allowing through a rationed amount of passion? That I could somehow regulate my emotions where she could not? Somewhere inside, did I blame her for not trying harder to be the mother I’d wished her to be? The person I’d wished her to be? Oh Jesus. It hurt to think about this, but I needed to. My father didn’t deserve my hatred, my disgust. God, he’d lost the woman he loved that day, and his son. He’d been left all alone. And for thirteen years, he’d never tried to correct my assumptions, but he’d silently applauded me from the sidelines.

I looked at my father, really looked at him for maybe the first time, saw the heartache in his eyes, the way he covered his own feelings with gruffness. “Yes, Brant. You are like your mother. The best part of her. I never,” he choked slightly and then coughed, taking a moment to recover, “I never wanted you to forget that side of her. I didn’t want you to let that be covered over by her actions in the end.”

It felt like I was choking too. “So you took the burden of my hatred to spare me the pain of hating her on top of my grief?”

“It seemed better that way. And I wasn’t blameless. I made my own mistakes. I was willing to pay for them.”

“Ah, Dad. Christ.” I gripped my hair again, leaning my head forward as the truth of that day settled into my mind, my soul. We’d all made such big mistakes, let guilt and anger and terrible sadness rule our choices for far too many years. No more.

I let go of my hair, looked up. “I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.”

For a moment my father didn’t speak, but his shoulders shook slightly. Then he gathered himself together. “I’m the one who’s sorry. Please forgive me, son.” His voice faded off at the end. He was going to go to his grave believing he deserved my hatred.

“Yes,” I choked, standing, the file folder slipping to the floor, years’ worth of papers spilling out. My dad stood, and I hugged him, taking care with his cancer-riddled body, the full impact of the fact that I’d gotten my father back again and would soon lose him once more hitting me full in the chest.

“I’m so proud of you, son. All these years . . . so proud,” my father said, hugging me tightly. “I hoped . . . I hoped so much you’d come back. I didn’t want it to be like this, but I’m so glad you’re here now.”

After a moment I let go, helping him back into the chair. Tears sparkled in his eyes but he blinked them back. I squatted in front of him. “Dad, we have so much to talk about, so much to catch up on, but right now, I need to find Belle.”

He tilted his head, approval clear in his blue eyes. “You messed things up, did you?”

“Yeah. Big time.”

Tags: Mia Sheridan Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net