Chương 2
I helped her with homework.
I covered for her when she missed curfew.
I learned how to make spaghetti because she hated frozen dinners.
After Mom died, I became the person who remembered everything.
Doctor appointments.
School forms.
Birthday gifts.
The exact way Olivia liked her pancakes.
I had spent so long making sure she felt loved that I forgot to ask whether she loved me back.
“Why would you tell him?”
Her eyes filled.
“Because he was asking why you were acting weird.”
I almost smiled.
“Acting weird.”
“She said you were distant.”
“Who said?”
“Dad.”
I looked at the ceiling.
Of course he did.
People often called you distant when they noticed you were finally protecting yourself.
Olivia pulled a chair closer.
“I thought he would be upset.”
“He was.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean?”
She opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
That was the first honest thing she had done all night.
“I thought he would fight for you to stay,” she whispered.
The anger inside me shifted.
Not disappeared.
Just changed.
Because Olivia was not cruel.
She was young.
She was scared.
And sometimes scared people hurt the person standing closest to them.
A knock came at the door.
Dad walked in.
He looked exactly like he always did.
That was the strangest part.
Same gray jacket.
Same tired eyes.
Same wedding ring he never removed even though Mom had been gone six years.
He stopped when he saw me awake.
“Grace.”
My name sounded unfamiliar in his mouth.
I waited.
For an apology.
For an explanation.
For anything.
He looked at Olivia first.
Then me.
“I was scared.”
I said nothing.
He stepped closer.
“The accident happened so fast.”
I stared at him.
“That’s not what I heard.”
His face tightened.
For the first time, he looked afraid.
Not because I was hurt.
Because I remembered.
“Grace—”
“No.”
My voice surprised both of us.
“I heard you.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Then how did you mean it?”
He looked toward the window.
Cars moved through the hospital parking lot.
People were going home.
People were starting shifts.
People were buying coffee.
The world had continued.
“I was trying to make sure Olivia was okay.”
I nodded slowly.
“And you decided I wasn’t worth making sure about.”
“That’s not fair.”
The sentence came out immediately.
Too immediately.
His defense arrived before his regret.
I noticed.
So did he.
His defense arrived before his regret.
He noticed the silence after he said it, but he did not take the opportunity to change course.
Instead, he lowered himself into the chair beside the bed and looked older than he had the night before.
“I should have said something different,” he whispered.
I watched his hands.
They were shaking.
My father’s hands had always been steady.
They were the hands that fixed broken cabinet doors, changed flat tires, and carried grocery bags up three flights of stairs when we lived in the old apartment.
They were the hands that signed my permission slips without reading them and the hands that rested on Olivia’s shoulder every time she looked nervous.
I used to believe hands told the truth about people.
That night, I was not sure anymore.
“Different from what?” I asked.
He looked at the floor.
“From what you heard.”
“That’s not an answer.”
His jaw tightened.
“You want me to say I meant you didn’t matter?”
“I want you to tell me why you said it.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
For once, he did not have a quick explanation.
“I was afraid,” he finally said.
I looked at him.
“Afraid of what?”
He leaned back slightly.
“The car was crushed around you.”
“So?”
“So I saw Olivia first.”
His voice cracked.
“I saw her moving.”
I waited.
“And I thought she was in worse shape.”
The room became quiet again.
A small part of me wanted to accept that.
A small part of me wanted a version of the night where my father had made a terrible mistake because he was scared.
But then I remembered his finger pointing at me.
I remembered how easily the words came.
“The other one never meant much anyway.”
I looked away.
“You didn’t just choose her first.”
His face changed.
“You erased me.”
He stared at the wall.
That was the first moment he looked like someone who understood the damage.
Not someone being accused.
Someone being forced to see.
“I never thought you heard that,” he said.
The honesty hurt more than another excuse would have.
Because it meant the words were real enough that he only regretted the audience.
Not the thought.
I turned my head toward the window.
“I need you to leave.”
“Grace.”
“Please.”
He stayed still for several seconds.
Then he stood.
The chair legs scraped against the floor.
“I love you.”
The sentence hung there.
Six years ago, after Mom died, I would have grabbed onto those words like a rope.
I would have searched for proof that my father still saw me.
But love was a strange thing.
Sometimes people used it like a shield.
Sometimes they held it up after they had already hurt you.
“I believe you think you do,” I said.
His face fell.
That was worse than anger.
Anger would have been easier.
He left without another word.
After the door closed, I noticed Olivia was still standing in the hallway.
She had heard everything.
Neither of us spoke.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her good hand.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at her.
This time, she did not look away.
“I know.”
The answer surprised her.
“I’m not saying it’s okay.”
She nodded.
“I know.”
“I just know you’re sorry.”
She sat down slowly.
For a while, we listened to the sounds outside the room.
A cart rolling down the hallway.
May you like
A nurse laughing quietly at something.
A child crying somewhere nearby.
