Chương 5
“I don’t know how to fix this,” he said.
I looked at him.
“I don’t either.”
That was the hardest part.
Everyone expected forgiveness to be a door.
Open.
Closed.
Simple.
It was not.
Forgiveness was a room people had to walk through slowly.
Sometimes they stopped halfway.
Sometimes they turned around.
Sometimes they realized they had never actually entered.
Dad left an hour later.
He did not hug me.
I think he wanted to.
I think I wanted him to.
But wanting something and being ready for it were different things.
That afternoon, I received a call from the police department.
Officer Ramirez introduced himself.
He explained that because the crash involved injuries, they were reviewing the circumstances.
“There was a question regarding the condition of the vehicle before impact,” he said.
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“What kind of question?”
“A maintenance issue.”
I looked toward the driveway.
Dad’s borrowed SUV was parked outside.
“Did my father tell you something?”
A pause.
Not long.
But noticeable.
“He mentioned a mechanical problem.”
My stomach dropped.
“What problem?”
“We’re still investigating.”
The careful tone bothered me.
“What aren’t you telling me?”
Another pause.
Then he said, “Ms. Bennett, did your father ever discuss concerns about the car before the accident?”
I looked at the empty space where the Lincoln usually sat.
The strange smell.
The hesitation.
Dad telling me to stop being dramatic.
A memory returned.
Not from the crash.
From the week before.
Dad standing in the driveway with the hood open.
His phone pressed between his shoulder and ear.
His voice low.
“I can’t afford another repair right now.”
At the time, I thought he was talking about something small.
Now I was not sure.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Officer Ramirez gave me his number.
“If you remember anything, call me.”
After hanging up, I sat there for a long time.
The accident had started with a sentence.
But maybe it had started before that.
Maybe there were things my father had chosen not to tell us.
And maybe the reason he chose Olivia first had nothing to do with love.
Maybe it had to do with guilt.
The possibility that my father had hidden something from us sat in the house like another person.
It followed me from room to room.
It sat across from me while I ate lunch.
It waited beside me when I tried to sleep.
I hated that I could not prove anything.
I hated that suspicion felt so much like betrayal.
Because despite everything, some part of me still wanted my father to be the person I thought he was.
People talked about forgiveness as if it was about the person who hurt you.
They rarely talked about the strange grief of losing the version of someone you loved.
That was what I was experiencing.
I was not just angry at my father.
I was mourning him.
The next day, I called Officer Ramirez back.
Not because I had answers.
Because I had questions.
“I remembered something,” I said.
He asked me to explain.
I told him about the driveway.
The hood open.
The phone call.
The way Dad had looked frustrated.
I expected him to tell me it was nothing.
Instead, he said, “That could be relevant.”
The word bothered me.
Relevant.
A cold word.
A word that belonged in reports, not families.
“Did something happen with the vehicle?” I asked.
“We’re still collecting information.”
“That means yes.”
A small silence followed.
“Ms. Bennett, I can’t discuss details of an active investigation.”
I closed my eyes.
I understood.
I just hated it.
“Was my father aware of a problem?”
“I can’t answer that yet.”
Yet.
Another word that meant something existed but nobody was ready to say it.
After we ended the call, I sat on the edge of my bed.
My acceptance letter was still open on my laptop.
The apartment website was still bookmarked.
The future I had planned before the accident was waiting quietly.
It was strange.
I had spent years believing leaving would destroy my family.
Now staying felt like it might destroy me.
That afternoon, Aunt Meredith came over with groceries.
She never arrived empty-handed.
Even during arguments, even when she was angry, she showed up carrying something.
Soup.
Bread.
Laundry detergent.
Once, after Dad forgot to pay the electric bill, she showed up with a stack of envelopes and a lecture.
She had always loved people through practical things.
“I heard you talked to the police,” she said while placing vegetables on the counter.
I looked at her.
“How?”
She gave me a look.
“Your father.”
Of course.
Dad talked when he was uncomfortable.
He filled silence with information.
“He’s worried,” she added.
“He should be.”
She stopped arranging groceries.
“You sound like him.”
The comment irritated me.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you both turn fear into anger.”
I looked away.
“I’m not angry for no reason.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
She softened.
“Grace, I’m not defending what he said.”
“Good.”
“But I’m saying something happened to your father too.”
I stared at her.
“What happened?”
She hesitated.
That was unusual.
Aunt Meredith was not someone who hesitated.
“After your mother died, Thomas changed.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You know he became quieter.”
She put a carton of milk into the refrigerator.
“You don’t know that he blamed himself.”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Because he was driving when your mother got sick.”
The words stopped me.
“What?”
She closed the refrigerator door.
“Your mother’s cancer was already there. Nobody knew. But your father always wondered if he missed something.”
I felt something shift.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
Just understanding.
“He thought if he paid closer attention, he could have saved her?”
Aunt Meredith nodded.
“He thought every bad thing that happened afterward was proof he had failed.”
I looked down.
“And then he had two daughters.”
“Yes.”
May you like
“And he decided one of them didn’t need him.”
Her face tightened.
