The fierce, protective look in his eyes was something I had never seen. The emotion in my chest wasn’t something I wanted to examine right now. This was a side of my father I had never known.
“Okay,” I said simply.
He nodded and stepped back. I walked into the room and it was as elaborate as the rest of the place. A chandelier hung in the entrance. Tall windows straight ahead were framed with elaborate crown molding.
“This way,” he said as we walked past a tall, marble fireplace and white leather-tufted sofas that set off a seating area. We entered another room, and this time my attention wasn’t on the décor; my eyes fell on a sheet of long, dark hair, which looked as if it had just been brushed. It draped over the back of what I assumed was a wheelchair, though it was unlike any I’d ever seen; it was made of soft, tufted leather, though the wheels were unmistakable. It faced tall picture windows, which looked out over rolling hills and a stream that ran nearby.
My father walked over to her and picked up a brush that was sitting on a chair beside her. Had he been brushing her hair before I arrived?
“Emmy, sweetheart, remember I told you that Harlow was coming to visit? She’s a big girl now. She’s very excited to see you. I’ve brushed your hair and you look beautiful.”
Was that my father talking? Never in my life had I ever heard him speak in that tone. All I could do was stare at him. This wasn’t Kiro. This wasn’t my dad. My dad didn’t talk that way. He didn’t brush women’s hair. He had never even brushed my hair as a child.
He looked up at me, then slowly turned my mother’s chair around to face me. My heart slammed hard against my chest. Breathing became difficult again, and I feared I was about to have a panic attack. This was too much. I was expected to remain calm, but how could I? This was my mother.
My eyes locked with hers. I held my breath as I slowly took in the woman in front of me. I had seen her pictures, and I could still see that same young woman in the one in front of me. She was cared for well. There was a vacancy in her eyes that couldn’t be ignored, but what looked like a smile touched her lips.
“Hello,” I said. I couldn’t say “mother.” I didn’t know her. The woman I had always thought of as my mother was an image of a young woman with laughing hazel eyes and a big smile. One that was full of life. That was my mother. This woman . . . she wasn’t someone I knew.
“Harlow, this is your mother, Emily. Emmy, this is Harlow. Remember that sweet baby girl you held? We look at her pictures and talk about the things we did and places we went? She was too small when she was born, and we were so scared we would lose her. But we didn’t. You loved her too much to let her die. You did a good job, honey. She’s all grown up now.”
Emily Manning continued to stare at me. I wanted to accept that she was the woman in the photos I’d spent my childhood staring at and daydreaming about. But then that broke my heart even more. The happy, vibrant woman was gone. This was what was left.
“She’s old enough to come see you now. Would you like that? If I brought her here with me sometimes?” Dad asked as he pulled the chair up beside her and held her hand in his. “I think it would make you smile more. You know I love to see you smile.”
This wasn’t happening. I was asleep. Nothing seemed real.
“Come over here so she can see you better, Harlow. She doesn’t do well with far distances,” my dad said without taking his eyes off Emily’s face.
I was afraid to argue with him. It was obvious he would move heaven and earth to make sure she was happy. I sure didn’t want to be the one to upset her.
I walked over to her, and she followed my every move with her eyes. Her eyelashes batted quickly and she made a grunting noise.
“That’s close enough,” Dad said. “Don’t make her nervous.”
I stopped.
“She looks like you. Can you see that? She has your beautiful mouth and hands. And her hair—that’s all you. God knows mine is shit,” he told her affectionately.
Her body leaned over toward Dad. I wasn’t sure if she just slipped or if she was trying to get closer to him. “It’s okay. See, I have you right here with me. I wouldn’t let anyone in here hurt you, would I? You know I take care of my favorite girl,” he said, pressing a kiss to her head.
The emotion in my chest exploded and I understood it now. This wasn’t about me. This wasn’t about what I had been denied. The bitterness of betrayal faded to sorrow in that moment. Not for me—not because I hadn’t been given a chance to know my mom—but for my dad. Tears pricked my eyes and I knew I was going to cry. He was killing me. His devotion and obvious love for her was breaking me in two.