“Hi, Jules,” she says. “So good to see you. How was Paris? I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
It was eye-opening, Liz. And you probably don’t want to hear all about it.
“It was great,” I say, then sigh in relief when she grabs her keys and phone from a wooden table in the foyer.
“I’m excited to hear about it sometime. I’m off to Orange Theory.”
Last night when I reached out, I told my dad I needed to talk to him privately about mutual funds.
I didn’t tell him I wanted to discuss something that’s been weighing on me for six years. That would be cruel, to let that gnaw at him all day. The coordinating producer in me timed it around Liz’s workout schedule.
My father’s footsteps echo from the direction of the kitchen, coming closer. When he appears in the front hall, he’s still in work clothes, but his suit jacket is gone, and his cuffs are rolled up. He looks like it’s a regular day for him.
Does he have any idea what’s truly on my mind?
“Hi, sweetie,” he says with affection.
No, he has no idea.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, and it feels strange to talk to him so casually, knowing what I came to say.
Liz drops a kiss on his cheek. “Bye, darling. See you later,” she says, then trots down the steps, off to the gym.
He shuts the door behind her and gestures to the kitchen. “Want an iced tea? LaCroix? Anything else?”
He doesn’t offer wine. I wouldn’t take it even if he did.
“Sure,” I say, distracted by thoughts of what’s to come. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I tell him the truth about Paris and his best friend and me? What if I tell him where I met Finn?
Stop.
Tonight is not about Finn.
And I won’t blurt out anything inappropriate.
The thoughts float out the window.
“Which one?” he asks.
“Water,” I say as we head into the kitchen. He fills a glass from the tap, then grabs a bubbly water for himself from the fridge.
“I have my laptop ready and lots of spreadsheets,” he says.
Oh, Dad, what I have to say won’t involve rows and columns.
I take a seat at the counter next to him. Last night, I rehearsed what to say, but now that I’m here, all my practiced words fall away. Not by mistake—I am one hundred percent intentional when I skip the preamble and speak the truth. “It’s not my fault.”
His brow knits in confusion. “What’s not?”
I am strong. I am ready. “Willa’s death. It wasn’t my fault. Just because I taught her to sneak out, it wasn’t my fault,” I say, my voice catching, my throat tightening.
His eyes widen. His voice is thick with concern as he asks, “What’s going on, Julia?”
“You said it was my fault,” I say, pushing past the tears pricking the back of my eyes. “You said it at her grave.”
He blinks like this doesn’t add up. Like I don’t add up. “I-I did?”
A plume of anger rises in me, stoked by his reaction. “You don’t remember?”
My father stares off like he’s rushing through his memory banks, checking the files for that awful day. “After the family therapy session? When you said you felt bad for teaching her to sneak out?” Each phrase is clipped, like they’re hard for him to say.
Welcome to the club, Dad. Lots of things are hard for me to say.
“Yes, and the next day you were putting flowers on her grave, and you started crying.” My rebellious tears fight their way out, rolling down my face as I remember my father on his knees at the grave, his face in his tear-soaked hands, and me trying to comfort him. Trying to say something. Anything.
“I said, I miss her too. I miss her so much.” I push on, needing him to do some work here. To remember the awfulness. “When I said, I wish she were here, do you remember what you said to me next?”
He can’t miss the ache in my voice. The hurt. But he can’t miss the strength in it either. I’m not leaving this stone unturned.
He’s quiet at first, but his face is pained. At last, he shudders out a rough, rattling breath. “I remember that day was awful. I remember every day was awful,” he says, then presses his lips together, fighting off a torrent of anguish like he did that day.
“But I try not to remember that time,” he adds in a barren voice. “I try not to go there. It hurts too much.”
This will hurt him even more. “You said Willa would be alive if you’d been home that night, and if Mom hadn’t had that wine at her house.”
He drags a hand over his chin. “Yes. I said that. I said that every night.”
“But that’s not all you said.”
It’s as if he’s staring into the mirror at a monster. “What did I say?”
Somehow, I manage to get out the awful words. “You said she’d still be around if I hadn’t taught her to sneak out.”
He brings his hand to his mouth. “I said that?” His eyes flood with tears.
I won’t let him wiggle out of this. “You did.”
He covers his face again. I haven’t seen him like this since that day. He’s…broken.
“I’m so sorry,” he mutters, then his big shoulders tremble more as he finally looks up.
“You don’t even remember?” I’m a mess now too. Tears rain down my cheeks. I can’t believe I’ve carried this for so long and he doesn’t remember.
“I don’t doubt I said it,” he says, sounding ashamed and maybe tortured too. “But I don’t remember much of that day, Julia. Or any of those days. I just remember hating myself. Hating life. Hating everything. I remember for months wishing it were me. I remember wanting to trade places with your sister,” he says. “I remember wanting to die.”
Oh god.
He was in such a dark place. I had no idea. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”
He shakes his head, then says quietly, “I wasn’t supposed to feel that way. A man, a father, a former cop. I was supposed to look out for you, and I did a horrible job. I was so lost, I said something terrible to you, and I’m so sorry.” His eyes glisten with both a fresh round of tears and the hope that I’ll forgive him. “I was in so much pain, I didn’t realize what I said when I was like that. When I was grieving. When I was breaking apart. But that’s no excuse.” He stands, comes to me, and grips my shoulders. “It was not your fault. It was never your fault. You did nothing wrong. And nothing, I repeat nothing, could make me stop loving you.”
I stand and take his hug as he wraps his arms around me, pulling me close in a tear-soaked embrace that’s six years overdue.
I cry. He cries. The kitchen fills with the sound of sobs and snot and years of guilt unraveling.
When I break the hug at last, I grab a nearby tissue box and wipe my tears, handing him a wad of tissues too.
He swipes his eyes. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ve been a terrible father.”
I don’t want him to carry that either. “No. You’re not a terrible father. I should have stood up for myself. I should have said something sooner. I let it define me.”
“It doesn’t define you. It just happened. It’s…a tragedy.” For a moment, he looks a little lost in time, like he’s remembering something else. “Sometimes we don’t say things when we should. Someone said that to me recently. And it’s true. I should have checked in with you. I should have asked how you were doing. I should have tried harder. I regret that. Deeply. But it’s not your fault.”