The Untold Story Of Diana Wilbur

Chapter Twenty Eight

As the school dismissal time approached, I stood at the school gate as usual, waiting for dad, who typically arrived promptly to pick me up. That day, the weather was slightly cloudy. One by one, my friends were picked up by their parents, starting to leave the school grounds.

I glanced at the small watch on my wrist, the minutes ticking by without any sign of dad's presence. My eyes scanned every approaching bicycle, hoping to see dad's old bike appear from a distance, but that hope continued to be dashed. Gradually, the schoolyard grew empty, leaving only a few children still waiting.

After waiting for over half an hour, I realized that dad might not be coming to pick me up today. A wave of disappointment washed over me. Finally, I decided to walk home by myself. I chose to take the unpaved path, my favorite route that I often walked with dad, as it led to an open field brimming with beautiful wildflowers.

I took a moment to stop and admire a cluster of Canola flowers growing along the side of the path. They clustered together, resembling a group of yellow butterflies resting on green stems. These flowers stood out with their bright yellow flower heads, shimmering under the soft afternoon sunlight. Their beauty was captivating, and I remembered that Canola flowers only bloom from February to mid-March, offering a brief and rare splendor during springtime.

In the distance, I spotted dad waving his hand while pedaling his bicycle at an incredible speed. My heart leaped with joy as I watched him approach, as if all my worries and sadness vanished in an instant. I couldn't contain myself from jumping up and down in excitement, my arms waving back with enthusiasm.

Sweat streamed down dad's face, soaking his neat office clothes, which now looked wrinkled and damp. Each pedal stroke showed how hard he was trying to arrive on time. His facial expression clearly indicated his immense exhaustion, the lines on his forehead becoming more pronounced, and his breathing labored. Despite this, dad still managed to give a wide, loving, and relieved smile.

When he finally reached me, dad got off the bike with a slight limp, trying to hold back the fatigue he felt. I immediately ran towards him, hugging him tightly as if never wanting to let go. Dad returned my hug gently, his rough, work-worn hands stroking my hair with affection.

"Dad, I thought you weren't coming!" I exclaimed.

"Of course I would come pick up my precious daughter?" Dad said, wiping the sweat from his forehead. "I'll buy you ice cream if you want it. But don't tell your mom. She might not be happy," Dad whispered cautiously, as if afraid someone might hear.

"Yes, Dad! I want it!" I said.

"Come on, hop on! We're going to the store," he said, reaching for my hand to help me onto the bike.

Our family always seemed harmonious, finding happiness in simplicity that often made those around us envious. We lived life with smiles and laughter, supporting each other through thick and thin. Our closeness felt so natural and pure, as if nothing could tear down the happiness we had built together.

However, as time went by, I began to realize that this happiness would not last forever. Although we appeared to be the perfect family to others, behind it all, cracks were slowly starting to appear. The happiness that once felt solid now seemed fragile, and the trust that was once unshakeable began to waver. Everything changed abruptly the following year.

At that time, we were enjoying dinner together. I took my plate and asked mom to add my favorite omelet. Indeed, mom always saved a large omelet just for me. I spooned a piece of the omelet into my mouth.

I chewed my food for a long time, then glanced at dad. "Dad, my friends went to the amusement park in the city. They said it has all sorts of rides. I want to go there too!" I exclaimed, until I choked on my food.

Mom handed me a glass of water. "Eat first, then talk!"

I took a sip of water, watching dad's reaction, but he just remained silent, focused on his food. "Why are you so quiet?! Aren't you interested in going there?" I asked.

Dad put down his spoon. "Sorry, Lily! But I have to stay in the city for three days starting tomorrow for some work at the office," he replied.

"Staying in the city again?" Mom asked.

"Yes! Hussein and I are working together on a new project development plan," Dad replied.

I looked at mom. "Mom! Please!" I pleaded with desperation.

Mom gently touched my hair. "Maybe someday, if there's an opportunity. I can't go to the city either, because your little sister is too young for a long trip."

Disappointment washed over me. I felt like mom was prioritizing Aster over me. Every time Aster cried, mom would immediately drop whatever she was doing to soothe her. Sometimes, when I needed help or just wanted to talk to mom, she was often preoccupied with Aster, making me feel ignored and unimportant.

In addition, dad had been staying in the city a lot lately due to his increasingly busy work schedule. Each time he left, he would make promises to come home early on the weekends, but these promises were often unfulfilled. As a result, we rarely had family gatherings at home, and our moments together were becoming increasingly rare.

Dad always said, "Without work, how can i feed you guys?" While this statement is true and understandable, it sometimes feels out of touch with the reality we face. Dad may not realize that even though he works hard for us, his presence is far more valuable than anything he could provide materially. There is a void that money cannot buy.

Dad often promised to come home early to spend time with us, but in reality, he almost always came home late at night, when we were already asleep. In the morning, before dawn broke, he would leave again.

Every time dad promised to come home early, our hopes would soar. We imagined sitting together in the living room, laughing and sharing stories. But as the clock ticked on and the front door remained closed, disappointment slowly crept in. Mom and I would often sit in the silent living room, listening to the sound of the ticking clock, which seemed to grow louder in the stillness.

I felt like dad was always seeking our understanding, asking us to appreciate how hard he worked to provide for the family. However, he often forgot that there were other responsibilities at home that were equally important. His absence from home left a void that could not be filled. We missed the simple moments with him—eating dinner together, listening to his stories, or just talking about our day.