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The grass is damp and soft under my bare feet, tickling them as I walk. "Hey daddy."

He doesn't say anything when I sit in the chair next to his, he barely even moves. "Do you think I'm a terrible person Dalia?" I ponder his question for a moment, because I'm honestly not sure about the answer. When I was little I thought my father had hung the stars and moon just so the night sky would be bright and shining when I fell asleep. He would write and sing songs for me, strumming his guitar with scarred hands, his boots thumping against the floor as he kept time. He filled my childhood with music and colors and joy. He taught me piano, and how to read notes. He taught me how to play the harp, flute, guitar, and cello as well, but my favorite was always the piano.
I look at my father, and notice for the first time, the strands of gray scattered throughout his blonde hair. He has lines around his eyes and mouth, he's always been a smiler, always cracking some joke that no one found amusing except him.
When I still don't respond to him, he says something unexpected. "Your brother told us what happened while we were gone." "What did he say exactly?" I question, unsure if Anthony shared the whole truth or just bits and pieces. "He told us about what you and Luca saw him doing with Rachel."

Oh, so he told him everything. I'd be lying to myself if I said I wasn't surprised. "Do you think I should just forget about it and forgive them beacause they're family and my best friend?" I clench my hand while I ask, trying my best to make it sound like I couldn't care one way or the other what his answer might be. "No," he says deliberately slow. "You should give them hell." I whip my head towards his in surprise and catch his smile that's identical to Anthony's when he's up to no good. "You're serious?" I ask incredulously, there no way he's serious. "Of course. They did something bad, and must atone to those they hurt." Something in the sadness and anger in his voice makes me think he isn't really talking about Anthony. "What will you do to atone?" I ask quietly. He takes my hands in his scarred and shaking ones- a reminder of his accident- and looks at me, smiling tightly as he squeezes them. "I will never stop trying to make it right, even though nothing I could say will ever fix what I've now broken twice... you'd think I would have learned by now, huh." He says with a forced smile.
This feels like the end of... whatever you might call this conversation- a heart-to-heart? I honestly don't know.
But there's still something bothering me, something that I need to know. "Daddy," I begin haltingly. He's looking at me with a question in his eyes. "What was the fight about?" I speak so fast that my words blur together and I worry that he won't understand them. He's silent. As silent as an un-rosined bow on strings- as he would say.
"Do you remember when you were thirteen and your mom got sick?" He asks quietly. I had to think for a moment, I don't remember much of when I was thirteen... it feels blurry.
But then I do remember, I remember something that I tried very hard to forget. My mother's papery thin skin, her dark circles, her missing hair. She'd had a brain tumor, and had to do chemo therapy for thirteen months. But she made a full recovery, she's fine..... so why is he bringing it up?
He's crying, I look at him, and he's crying. "Daddy?" My voice trembles as tears start to fall, my father pulls me into his arms while I weep, rubbing gentle circles on my back.

4 YEARS AGO.

The night that Rachel dragged me to that middle school party in early fall was memorable for two very different salient reasons: the joy of my first kiss, and the subsequent despair that overshadowed it.

I had walked with Rachel to her house after we left the party and was only half a block away from my own home when I saw the flashing lights.
My lawn was painted in bright red and blue light, which cast the swarm of people in front of the door in a garish light, their shadows like dark omens haunting the house.
The strange thing was that when I heard the sirens screaming and saw the lights flashing, I couldn't think, I stopped breathing. And that giddy feeling of first love I had felt vanished just as suddenly as it had appeared.
I hear the sound of squeaky wheels thumping down the three steps that led outside of the house, and my eyes caught sight of the gurney being pushed by paramedics. There's someone lying on it, someone with soft hair, warm skin, and a voice like honey. It's someone I would know anywhere.
I stand there, glued to the spot, my voice trapped in my throat as silent tears spill down my face. And then I'm being pulled behind the tree. My brother's arms wrap around me as he ties his robe around my waist, hiding my outfit from our father's distracted gaze. I look into his red and puffy eyes, and know without having to ask that something awful happened. "Mom." I whimper. He looks away, squeezing his eyes tight. He nods his head lightly. It's really her.

My mother was diagnosed with stage two brain cancer.
She had been having frequent migraine, and her collapsing was- as the doctors put it- inevitable. She underwent over a year of treatment before she made a recovery, and when she was sick, I felt lost.
Most of that year was forgotten, pushed to the farthest recesses of my mind. The doctors said that my amnesia was caused by a traumatic event, presumably my mother getting diagnosed with brain cancer. My parents were at the hospital for days at a time, so I spent a long time on my own. And I took whatever distraction was available. Be it school, figure skating, gymnastics, or something less virtuous.
That was undoubtedly the worst time of my life, and things didn't go back to our version of normal until my mother recovered.

🥲 i love it

Yay!
Thanks Emerson❤️

yw ❤️

i- i cant its too good im crying over here 😭