He nodded in agreement, then said, “No, but you can change how you feel.”
Here we go, I inwardly sighed.
I smiled a little. “I can’t change how I feel until I resolve why I feel the way I feel.”
“Ah, I see.” My dad smiled too. “If that’s the case, then when are you moving back home?”
I pulled on my father’s hand and stopped us walking.
“What?” I asked him, and fully turned in his direction.
My father raised his eyebrows at me. “Your problem started at home. You can’t fix it anywhere but here because your problem is rooted here . . . He lives here.”
I groaned. “Why can’t you just tell me to get over it and move on from Kale?”
“Why should I repeat what you’ve told yourself a million times before? It won’t change how you feel.”
I glared at my father. “When did you become so philosophical?”
“The day you left me.”
I froze. My father’s reply was instant, and it gutted me.
“I’m so sorry, Dad,” I breathed.
He frowned at me. “I know you are.”
I leaned in and placed my head on his chest. “Being here is really difficult.”
He put his arms around me and kissed the crown of my head. “I know, honey, but deep down you knew you couldn’t stay away forever.”
I sighed and mimicked my father, putting my arms around him. “Staying away – that was my plan.”
“Until Harry?”
I nodded against my father’s chest. “Until Harry.”
“He always did say he would get you to come home. Little did he know he was right.”
My eyes welled with tears.
“He understood it wasn’t just a silly crush I had with Kale. He knew that I was devastated when things ended the way they did between us. Then after Lavender . . . he knew I had to leave after she collided with the bombshell Kale dropped. It’s why he helped me. I probably would have started on my downward spiral again without Lavender, as I watched Kale and Drew start a family together while I looked on from the outside.”
I pushed away the thought of Lavender and the surfacing memory of Kale revealing to me that he was having a child with another woman, but I knew when I was by myself I would relive that day over again just like I had a million times before.
“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about,” my father murmured.
I pulled back and looked at him. “What do you mean?”
He frowned. “We’re nearly there.”
He took my hand and starting walking again. “I’m sorry if this upsets you,” my father said as he brought us to a stop in front of a grave.
The white marble teddy bear plaque was the first thing I noticed about the grave. My eyes picked up the carved-stone toys and artificial flowers a few seconds later. My heart hurt when I realised what I was looking at.
“You want to show me a baby’s grave?” I asked, annoyed. “Why would I want to see this, Dad? Of course it will upset me.”
I avoided looking at the picture of the little angel on the headstone because I didn’t want to see the face of the beauty that was taken far too soon from the cruel world I still roamed.
“Because I want you to hear it from me before you hear it from anyone else,” my father replied.
“What the hell are you talking about?” I asked, my mind a pool of confusion. “You want me to know what?”
My father looked away from me. “About a year after you left, something awful happened.”
My stomach instantly began to churn.
“Wh-What do you mean?” I asked, my voice tight.
My father rubbed his face with his free hand. “You knew Drew was pregnant when you left, but what you don’t know is that she gave birth to a boy four months after you went to New York. The baby was two months premature. At first everything was perfectly perfect. Even though he was small, he was healthy and everyone was happy. Then when he was two months old, he was diagnosed with leukaemia. He fought hard for a few months, but eight months after he was diagnosed, his little body couldn’t take any more—”
“Dad. Please,” I cut him off, not wanting to hear anything further.
My father ignored me and pressed on, “The doctors tried everything they could, but he—”
“Stop it,” I snapped. “Just. Stop.”
“He died,” my father finished.
I whimpered and flung my hands over my mouth as I took a step away from my father and from the grave. “Dad, no,” I whispered. “Please be lying.”
My father’s features shone with pain. “I wish I was lying, sweetie, but I’m not.”