Discovering Delilah (Harborside Nights, Book 2)(81)

“Why, Dad?” I plead. “Why would you do this to me?”

I look at my mother’s grave, but I can’t pull the words from my throat. She was also standing beside him, agreeing with the things he said. A silent partner who wasn’t always silent. I have a feeling that she doesn’t need me to repeat myself. She knows. She’s still beside him.

I bury my face in my hands, feeling like my heart has been ripped from my chest again. How can a person’s heart be ripped out over and over again? I remain there, overtaken by sadness, for a long while. Tears come and go, and my mind continues to swim.

I rise on shaky legs and stare down at my parents’ graves, crossing my arms to try to gain control of my trembling. It doesn’t work.

“I don’t hate you,” I spit out. “I hate what you did. I hate how you made me feel.”

Kenny’s words come rushing forward. She said it’s okay for girls to be girlfriend and girlfriend and boys to be boyfriend and boyfriend. I think it’s okay since Mom said it’s okay.

I sink to my knees again, the hurt overtaking my anger.

“Dad, what did your parents do to you, for you to do this to me?”

“It was pretty bad.”

I spin around at the sound of Aunt Lara’s voice. She kneels beside me and touches my shoulder. Her other hand wraps around her rib cage. She broke a few ribs in the accident, and I wonder if she feels the pain anew.

“Delilah, your father loved you, honey. He adored you.”

“No.” I shake my head. “He only loved the perfect parts of me he wanted to love. I saw it in his eyes. Once I told him, he didn’t love me for me. I ruined it.”

“Dee, this is going to be a lot to digest. Do you want to go somewhere to talk?”

I shake my head. “No. I think I should hear it right here in front of him.”

She stares at me for a long time, assessing me. I know she’s trying to figure out if she can convince me to leave, so I clench my trembling jaw to let her know I’m not going anywhere.

“Okay.” She sits beside me and crosses her legs. “You didn’t know your grandparents very well, but our parents were super-conservative. If you think your father’s rules were strict, you can multiply them by about a million. I don’t claim to know much about gay lifestyles, and I don’t think my brother did, either. We were from a different generation. Our generation wasn’t as free or as diverse as yours. And our parents? Well, their generation was so…wrong when it came to this stuff.”

Wrong? She thinks they were wrong?

“Your father was only mimicking what he learned. We weren’t brought up to be open-minded.” She covers her heart with her hand and swallows hard. “But I know, with every ounce of my being, that he adored you.”

“But…”

“Please, just hear me out. Your father didn’t hate gays. He was uncomfortable with the idea. And when you told him about your…preferences, he was forced to confront other fears. Parental fears.”

I bit my lower lip to try to stave off more tears.

“On the way home, he and your mom talked about you. They worried for you. Your father worried that your lifestyle would make your life more difficult for you. It’s different for parents. We worry about how the things our children do—from getting tattoos or nose rings to sexual preferences—will impact their lives. I know you can’t understand this, because your generation is so much more open with these things, but when we were growing up...” She presses her lips together and shifts her eyes toward their graves. “Things were very different. Biases were everywhere. Your father didn’t want to imagine you facing that type of prejudice from others.”

“But it’s not really like that! Things have changed and it’s more widely accepted now.”

“No, honey, it’s not like that with your generation. But your generation kind of lives in a bubble.”

I can’t keep my eyes from rolling.

“Not just your generation. All generations live in their own bubbles. When we were your age, we lived in bubbles. We still do. Only as adults we’re expected to break free of our bubbles as younger generations change and evolve into things that are wildly different from what we’re used to. You’ll see one day, when the next generation does things that you question. This has gone on for hundreds of years. Every generation thinks the next is worse, doing things that are wrong or unsafe, or stupid.” She draws her brows together. “Not that you’re stupid or wrong or anything like that. I’m speaking in generalities.”

“I don’t understand. I’m his daughter. He should have just accepted me. He owned a house in Harborside, for God’s sake.”