Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 645(@200wpm)___ 516(@250wpm)___ 430(@300wpm)
Her little face twists in amusement, her rosy lips tipping at the corners. “I know who you are.” She almost chuckles, but holds onto it as though she realizes it might make me feel a little stupid.
“You do?” I retract my hand a little, cocking my head.
“Yes. You’re my daddy.” She says it so matter-of-factly, with no hint of accusation or discontent.
Fucking hell, I’m flummoxed. Just like that? My heart constricts in my chest, twisting painfully over and over, until I feel the need to push the side of my fist into my pecs in an attempt to ease it.
She places her little hand in mine and I look down, seeing it looking like it could be the most delicate of birds perched there. Those beads of liquid that were forming on my forehead have somehow made their way to the backs of my eyes. I blink the sting away and look at her, amazed. She smiles. It’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.
“Nice to meet you, Daddy. My name is Charlotte. I’m your little girl.”
My aching heart explodes in my fucking chest, shattering into tiny fragments that are all heavily weighted down with guilt, remorse, and so much sorrow. “Nice to meet you, too,” I reply, my voice broken as I smile through my emotion.
I deserve to be hanged. After everything I’ve done—for abandoning this little girl to wallow in my pit of misery—I deserve to be sliced to pieces and left out for the vultures. I realize now that Charlotte would have helped me. We would have muddled through. She would have brought light into my dark world and given me determination to find my way. This tiny creature, so alive and resilient, is putting me to shame.
I wrap my huge palm around her little one and apply a little pressure, hoping she reads into it as I want her to. I’m struck dumb for words.
Giggling a little, she shifts her hand so she’s holding mine and starts pulling me toward the table. “We’re having a party.”
I look at the table, reminded of what I first walked in on. Oh heck, she’s not going to make me talk to her stuffed toys, is she?
“Looks fun,” I muse, trying to swallow down the lasting overwhelming feelings that Charlotte has stirred. It’s no good. It’s all wedged securely in my throat with no chance of going anywhere.
“Sit.” She releases my hand and points to where she wants me to be, and I obey quickly, waiting for my next instruction.
She looks delighted by my willingness, and my chest actually swells a little, proud that I’ve pleased her. “I have a table and chairs, too.” She points to the bottom of the garden, to a minuscule table and chair set. My foot is bigger than the seats of the chairs. “Aunty Abbie said you might be too big and break them.”
Thank God for Aunty Abbie. I’m already frightened of breaking this fragile little girl. I don’t want to risk damaging her toys. “I think Aunty Abbie is right.”
Charlotte pushes herself up onto a chair, looking even smaller as she shuffles her bum forward to the edge so she can reach the table, the long, dark strands of her ponytail jumping across her little shoulders. She takes a little teapot and pours some water into a thimble of a teacup.
“Have some tea.” She passes the cup over and I grip it between my thumb and forefinger awkwardly, trying not to look like a big clumsy oaf.
“Thank you.” I give up on the tiny cup and place it down, reaching for my inside pocket. “Can I show you something?”
Her excitement is instant. “What?”
“I’d like to show you a photograph of your mummy, if you’d like?”
“I’ve seen lots of photographs of my mummy.”
Her reply gives me pause. Of course she has. The hallway is lined with reams of them. But not like this one. This is the only picture of me and Monica together. “This one is a little different.”
Her hairline drops as her little forehead furrows deeply. “Why?”
Fingering the picture inside my pocket, I momentarily question if this is the right thing to do. “Well, because I’m in the picture, too.” I blurt the words, nervous, and pull it out before I can convince myself it’s a bad move. “Here.” I hand it over, trying not to take a peek myself.
I don’t know why I’ve kept it all this time. Personal torture, perhaps? Seems like a reasonable explanation. I’ve been hell-bent on it the past few years. Or maybe I knew deep down, beneath all of the twisted bitterness, that I’d one day see sense and do anything to get my little girl back. I prefer that conclusion.
I watch, fascinated, as her eyes shine like diamonds, seeing her mummy and daddy together for the first time. She studies the image for a long time, her gaze roaming every inch of the photograph.