Slowly, I turn to face my father. He looks older than when I last saw him. Seems like the guilt of putting your last living daughter in a mental facility has really fucked with him. The top of his head is balding, and the sides are now nearly all gray. His face is lacking in color, the lines much deeper than they were just months prior. He doesn’t look good. That much is obvious.
“Mark.” I nod my greeting, keeping my voice surprisingly even.
If I wasn’t paying close attention, and if I didn’t know my father the way I do, I would’ve missed the flinch. There’s no bigger shame to a parent than being stripped of the title “Dad” or “Mom.” And I’ve stripped Mark and Monica of both.
I clear my throat, squaring my shoulders. “Is Monica here? I wanted to talk to you guys.”
He rubs at the back of his neck, a pained look in his eyes, as he stares down at me. “Yes, she’s here. Come in.” He opens the door wider, inviting me inside, and then glances toward the car. His brows dip, likely noticing the bodies sitting inside, but he doesn’t comment on it.
Inside, I’m hit with the smell first. It’s the smell of my childhood. The smell of my mother and her Yankee candles and the wood floor cleaner she often uses, but there’s a new scent. It reeks of sadness. Not the kind of sadness we grew up with. This one is different. It’s lonelier. I follow my dad into the kitchen and try not to let my gaze wander. This isn’t a fun walk down memory lane. This is for business. This is to get answers.
I hate that when we walk into the kitchen, I stumble at the sight of my mother. She’s sitting at the table, looking worse for wear. If I thought my father looked bad, Monica has him beat. My dad clears his throat, grabbing her attention, and when her gaze lands on me, her eyes widen. The color drains from her face, and she suddenly pushes away from the table, rounding it so quickly, I don’t have time to process what she does next.
She tosses her arms around me, pulling me into a tight hug. My entire body locks up, tensing at the intrusion of my personal space. She must notice my lack of reciprocation because she slowly lets go and takes a wary step back. There’s guilt written all over her face. It’s there in the thin sheen of tears glimmering in her eyes.
She sniffles, glancing at her husband. “I had no idea you were coming here. I didn’t even know you were in—”
I laugh darkly. “Oh, I’m sure you didn’t.”
She snaps her mouth shut and jerks back as though I’ve slapped her. The fact that they both willingly threw me in a mental institution is the elephant in the room no one wants to broach.
“I’m not here to catch up or whatever it is you think this visit is for. I’m here for answers. I don’t know why I expect either of you to tell me the truth. It’s definitely not your guys’ strong suit.”
“Honey, we never wanted to hurt you.” My mom’s voice quakes. “We wanted to help you. You were acting—”
My dad cuts her off, shooting her a scathing glare. “None of that matters. Let’s just sit and talk. Ask us what you need to ask.”
Silence descends as we each lower ourselves into the chairs. My gaze pings back and forth between them as I try to figure out how to ask what I need to without potentially sounding even crazier to them.
“Did Madison really go to Italy on a foreign exchange program?”
My parents share a look with each other.
“Yes, you know this—” My mother starts to say, giving me a look that says, “Are you crazy? Why would you ask such a thing?”
“No.” My father sighs.
Every muscle in my body tenses. My mouth goes dry, as I play with the reality of the next words on my tongue. “Where was she then?”
My mom shoots my father a pleading look, and for the first time ever, my father looks at me with regret. “She was in Evermore, at St. Mary’s.”
I open my mouth but clamp my teeth together when I feel my chin wobble because I know what comes next. I think I knew it the first moment I laid eyes on Ava. Sniffing back the pressure in my nose, I steel myself.
“What did she go to St. Mary’s for? Why would you lie to everyone at school and in town about where she was?”
A tear slides down my mom’s cheek, and she looks down at the table. “Because your sister was pregnant. And the…” She chokes, pressing the back of her hand over her mouth to stop from sobbing. “The circumstances in which she got pregnant…we couldn’t let that get out. So, we sent her to St. Mary’s.”
Nausea swirls in my gut. “And what happened next?”
“She gave birth, then came back home.”
I bite my tongue until I taste blood. I want to scream. I want to yell. I want to hate them, all of them, for keeping such a big secret from me.
“So, instead of telling me, you guys lied. You guys covered it up and made her get rid of the baby to save your own asses. My whole life, you both made me feel like I was the problem. Everything I did, I tried to do to be better. To be the star child that you always thought she was. I spent every day loathing myself because I was never good enough.”
“You were good enough,” Mom cries.
“Obviously fucking not!” I swipe under my eyes, taking a second to compose myself. “What happened to the child?”
Their brows dip. “What child?”
I grow agitated. “The child she birthed. What happened?”
“The sisters at St. Mary’s took the child in. A few years later, a children’s organization took over the care for the children at the orphanage before it closed down. Each child was taken to a different part of the state. Wherever there was room or a family that wanted them.”
My nails dig into the palms of my hands, pain slicing through my skin. “And you never once thought to check on the child? To find out who your grandchild was?”
They both look away, guilt written on their faces. “We wondered. But no, we never did.”
I stare at them, letting the silence linger between us. Part of me wants to tell them everything, especially about the first time I met Ava. About how she came into my life. How Baz made it possible that I now get to call her mine. But for some reason, I don’t say anything at all. I sit there, staring at them through my narrowed gaze, judging them for all their past mistakes. Some people aren’t built to have and care for children for reasons like poverty, drug abuse, and the inability to love. My parents’ reasons were none of the above, but deep within my heart, I know they were never meant to be parents. They’ve fucked us up, royally. Our family is so broken, beyond repair.
“I’m sorry we didn’t tell you.”
I scoff. “Yeah. Me too.”
My dad nods toward the driveway outside the window. “You can invite him in. I’ve seen the photos on the news. I know you two are together. That was why I signed the conservatorship over to him. Because in every photograph, the way he looked at you was something every father wants for their daughter.”
I glance out the window, staring out at the car, fighting back tears. My chin trembles as I war with my emotions. No. He doesn’t get to do that. He doesn’t get to play the good guy. He doesn’t get to make it seem like every decision he made was for the greater good.