Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Whether he will or not is a whole other story.
But right now, I have no choice.
After a bit of research, I manage to find his contact details. It wasn’t like it was hard, he’s on Facebook, I know where he lives, and it didn’t take much to track down where he works. I haven’t done it before, because I haven’t wanted to, but I could have. At any time I could have.
I call his place of work, and a young girl answers. I ask her for him, and she tells me she’ll put me through.
That easy.
So simple.
Yet my heart feels like it’s going to launch out of my chest. My hands are shaking, and I’m sick to my stomach. I don’t have any other choice and, yet the idea of speaking to him makes me feel things I’ve long since bottled up.
“Hello, Edward speaking.”
The moment I hear his voice, a memory flashes into my mind. I’m young, I don’t know how old, and he’s throwing me into the air. He throws me up, and I squeal with laughter as he catches me again. I can see his face, so clearly. He’s happy, laughing, looking at me with the kind of love I haven’t seen since.
“Hello?” his voice echoes through the phone when I don’t answer.
“Dad?”
I don’t mean it to come out like that, hell, I didn’t even think about it.
Dad.
He’s not my dad.
He’s the man who made me but he left me. He left me with nothing and made sure it stayed that way.
I don’t think he deserves the honor of being called Dad, and yet that’s what automatically slipped through my lips.
“Bohdi? Bohdi, is that you?”
Oh, so he does remember he has a son.
“Yeah.”
He goes silent, for so long I actually think he might have hung up.
“Are you still there?” I question.
“I’m here, son. I’m here I just can’t believe ... I can’t believe it’s you.”
“I’m sorry to have to bother you, I’m sure you’d rather hear from anyone else, but I have no choice.”
“That’s not true. I have thought about this day ...”
“Funny, because you’ve never come to see me so I doubt that you’ve thought about it. I’m not here to listen to any sort of lies, I’m here to ask for help.”
“Son, I’m not telling you lies. I ...”
“I don’t care. Okay? I don’t care. I just need help.”
He exhales. “I don’t know what she has told you over the years, Bohdi, but you’ve got it so damned wrong.”
My heart aches. I want to ask him what he means, to hear him tell me he still cares. But he doesn’t. If he cared, he’d be here. If he cared, he wouldn’t have left. I don’t want to hear his excuses. I just need him to step up so that I can do the best by the girl I’m with because, one thing I am certain of, is that I’m nothing like him.
“Can you help me or is this a waste of a phone call?” I ask.
“I can help you, son,” he sounds defeated. “What is it you need?”
“Mom is destroyed, because of you. She doesn’t work, she doesn’t pay bills, she is an alcoholic and a junkie. I’m living in hell, the kind of hell you can’t begin to understand but it’s the hell you left us in. Now, my girlfriend is pregnant. I can’t take care of her and Mom, so I need money.”
“Your mom has money, son.”
“She has no fucking money.”
“Then she’s lying to you. I’ve been giving her money for you, every month, since I left.”
It feels like a sledgehammer to the chest when he says those words. He’s been giving her money? All this time? Where the hell has it gone?
“You’re lying,” I growl.
It’s easier to believe he’s lying than to believe that she has been the one to take everything from me, too.
“I’m not. I have every transaction here as proof. I didn’t realize things were so bad. I knew she hated me, but I didn’t know she was going down such a dark path.”
“You left us,” I growl. “What kind of path did you think she was going to fucking go down?”
“She kicked me out, I didn’t leave. Then she made sure I’d never see you again.”
“I’m so sick of fucking lies,” I roar. “You’re all lying to me. Can you help me or not?”
“Son, I’m not lying. I’d love the chance to see you, to talk to you, to help you ...”
“I don’t want to talk to you,” I yell. “I just want help.”
“Who is that?”
The scornful voice comes from behind me. I spin around to see my mother standing at the door, her eyes hazy from drugs, her hands shaking.
“Mom,” I say carefully.
“Who the fuck is that, Bohdi?” she bellows.
“Son, you need to get out of there,” my father says onto the phone. “Now.”