Bambina

29. Dad against daddy

I'm back at my father's for the first time in ages. It doesn't even feel like home anymore. My room upstairs, pink and white, dusty... pain. That's all I feel. I never felt this way when here before. But now, after experiences how unconditional love can be, I realized I wasn't loved the way I should have been by my father. And that hurts. Perhaps that's why I find it so hard to accept my innermost self, because he reassured me when I would cry because people picked on me for these things. I took his silence as an agreement- that they were right. 

The kitchen is just as I remember it. There's no soul left here. It's empty. My father is empty. My father's soul died with her. And it's equally tragic as it is beautiful.  The silence is mingling with the soft strains of classical music drifting from the nearby radio. My father stands beside me, looking sadder and more frail than I've ever seen him before. His hands are absent-mindedly shaping the dough into a perfect circle.

I know I should be grateful for this moment, for the chance to reconnect. But instead, all I feel is hollow, a longing for something that was never truly there. My mother's absence hangs over us like a shadow, a constant reminder of everything that has been lost. And the shadow just intensifies how much I miss her.

"Dad," I begin, my voice barely above a whisper. "Why did you never... why did you never bother to look after me after she... after she passed?"

The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken pain. My father's hands pause in their task, the dough forgotten as he turns to face me.

"I thought... I thought you didn't need me," he finally murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "You were always so... so strong, Sophia. I never wanted to burden you with... all that grief and anger. I'm afraid I'd've damaged you even more than I have."

His words cut through me like a knife, slicing through the layers of resentment and hurt that have built up over these past few months. I want to scream at him, to shake him and demand why he couldn't see past his own pain to see mine. But instead, all I can manage is a single tear, trailing down my cheek like a silent accusation.

"You were..." I whisper, choking. "You were supposed to... to protect me, to love me. But instead, you left me to fend for myself. I-I was six, dad! How could you think I didn't need you? It makes no sense? You made me believe that I wasn't worthy of love, dad, that I wasn't deserving of happiness."

The silence stretches between us, until I dare to speak up again. "I suck at taking care of myself, do you know that? I struggle to say no when enough is enough. I feel bad for even having basic needs. I say sorry when things aren't my fault, I- I'm broken!" 

And I realize that despite everything, despite the years of hurt and neglect that I was too blind to see before I knew... what love really is... there is still a part of me that craves his love, his approval. And I despise that. I shouldn't need it. I shouldn't need him. He hasn't been much of a father. Not really. I mean, there's love there, but it's so far away and so out of reach that it doesn't really count. I haven't felt it, even though I know it exists. 

My father's eyes are filled with tears as he reaches out to me, his hand trembling as it brushes against my cheek.

"I'm sorry, Sophia," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "I'm so sorry for... everything. I was... I'm just so lost without her. But I never stopped loving you, not for a moment."

I breathe heavily in, sighing, "I know... but it still hurts." 

As my father's trembling hand caresses my cheek, I feel a surge of conflicting emotions within me. There's anger, yes, and hurt, but beneath it all, there's a tiny spark of hope. Hope that maybe, just maybe, we can mend what has been broken between us. But it's fragile, delicate, like a delicate porcelain figurine teetering on the edge of a shelf. But hope... hope is life.