Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94860 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
What happened last night?
I don’t understand why he felt he couldn’t tell me. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt because I know he’s always trying to protect me. He made a decision, though, and instead of letting me in, he chose to keep me out.
Where does that leave us?
It’s a conversation we’ll have sooner rather than later and an issue we’ll need to address because this doesn’t leave me any less confused on where we stand. We have to be there for each other when one of us needs help. That’s what he’s done for me. He’s been there, so I don’t understand why he didn’t allow me to return the favor.
Closing my eyes, I try to settle my mind. It’s easier to give in to it than face the worries that I might lose my dad.
The long day takes hold, and sleep drags me under.
I add the tip in the app and get out of the car in front of the hospital. Tucking my phone into my purse, I take two steps toward the door before stopping. It’s early, not even seven o’clock, but I wanted to be here before visitation hours.
Now I’m questioning if I’m still dreaming.
I look up at the hospital sign and then back down at my mom standing at the entrance—hair pulled back away from her face and wearing an army-green jumpsuit with flats. It’s a casual look for what I’m used to when it comes to her.
I put on light makeup with jeans and a sweatshirt, so she’s more dressed up than I am.
“Hi,” she says with a slight wave of her hand. She remains where she is, looking out of place.
“Hi,” I reply, walking closer but stopping with a few feet between us. “What are you doing here?”
She’s not quick to answer. Talia always did things on her own timeline. I tuck my hair behind my ear and lift my sunglasses to the top of my head. Huffing, I say, “If you’ll excuse me, I want to check in.”
As soon as I pass, she says, “I loved him. Just so you know.”
I stop or rather my feet do. Maybe my breath does a little, too.
She says, “I didn’t marry him for money. I know you think I did. That gold-digger story wasn’t worth the effort it would have taken to clear it up. Your dad used to laugh about it because he knew the truth.”
I still have an hour before visitation opens, so I turn around and ask, “Do you want to get a coffee?”
It’s not big, but there’s relief in her smile. We walk to the corner and cross the street. As if the conversation was never interrupted, she says, “We met when he was a struggling film student. I know this information is out there, but I want you to know what’s real and what the truth is.”
We place our coffee order, and then we move off to the side. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that my mom is here, even after how our meeting in New York ended. When our names are called, I grab our cups and head back outside to sit at a table on the sidewalk. She says, “You have always had so much more to offer than I ever did.” Sitting forward as if she’s going to confess a sin, she takes the top off the cup, and then says. “I saw you as competition instead of my daughter.”
She looks at me and then to the paper coffee cup again. The confidence and swagger she carried the last time I saw her has all but vanished. I might even detect a note of humility. It’s not a characteristic I’d usually associate with her, but it’s a nice change.
“That’s too bad.” I’m not sure what else to say to her.
“He cheated on me. That’s why I left. There were many over the years. I’m not telling you so you hate him or to justify my actions. I own everything I’ve done. I left because I felt like nothing. I was a supermodel, and a man managed to make me feel like I was nothing inside.”
“His cheating had nothing to do with how you looked. It had to do with how he felt. I’m not defending him, but when you left him, you left me.”
“You’re stronger because of it.”
“I don’t want to be stronger. I wanted your love.” I stand, looking at the hospital until I can calm down. When I do, I turn back to her. “You got what you wanted. I’m stronger, strong enough not to need your love anymore.”
I only get five feet away when she says, “I’m sorry, Marlow. I’m sorry for hurting you and not realizing it at the time. After that, it was too late.”
Whipping around, I ask, “Was it? Was it really too late to make the effort for your own daughter?”