Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 151044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
He used to keep in touch. I still had some foggy memories of hanging by the kitchen door as my mom spoke quietly on a landline phone. I was young and their conversations went over my head but I remember my mom mentioning money, which my dad never sent.
On birthdays I’d get a card—the small kind that was made of flimsy paper and only said two words inside. But those words, printed plainly in low-quality ink, were the best birthday gift I received every year. That HAPPY BIRTHDAY meant more to me than all the bicycles and balloons I’d ever received.
When I was twelve, I waited for the mailman to come, but when he filled our mailbox with sales papers and bills there was no card from my dad. All week I waited anxiously for his card to arrive. When it never did, I blamed the post office.
I wrote my dad several letters, letting him know the stupid mailman lost his card and making sure he had our address right. I told him not to write in cursive and print very clearly on his next envelope. All of those letters were returned.
There was a period when I thought something terrible happened to him. I searched the internet for mentions of his name but found nothing. I was eighteen when I gave up. Then social media came around, breathing life and hope back into my old obsessive search and I was back at it again.
None of my milestone birthdays meant as much as they should, because I was always aware someone was missing. I wanted to get over his rejection, truly I did. My dad’s abandonment was a primal wound. It cut deep and would take more than one lifetime to heal. I didn’t want to feel the things his abandonment made me feel, but I had no way to shut those emotions off.
Therapy helped. Self-help books worked for a little while. But then there were days I’d think of him and the scar would rip open and my heart would be left bleeding for days like it was bleeding now.
There was no choice. I needed to do this. I needed to try one last time. It was my wedding for fuck’s sake.
While I’d not been the most cliché bride, I had been an agreeable one, making sure that Hale and the Davenports got everything they requested. Marrying Hale was enough for me to put myself through all the drama and excruciating attention, but if I could make one teeny, tiny wish, this was it.
I wanted my dad to walk me down the aisle.
For all the birthdays missed, all the father-daughter dances I attended with Uncle Rob, all the extra tickets to plays and softball games that went into the recycling, for the empty seats at both my graduations, this was the one thing I believed he owed me, so I was going to invite him to my wedding and I didn’t want anyone to tell me not to.
I knew the likelihood of a response was slim to none, but I had to try. I braced for the self-deprecating spiral that would follow. I could already hear Elle’s lecture. Although, since the damage from the accident, she might not remember how many times we traveled down this road, so maybe this time she’d say something different than, Ray, why do you let him hurt you like this?
Yes, I was hiding to avoid being talked out of something that would ultimately cause me pain. But also because I preferred to face my shame privately. Rejection was hard, but it was downright humiliating when others witnessed it.
Hale would comfort me when the time came, but I hated drawing his attention to that icky part of my past. There were two, possibly three, men who should love a woman unconditionally—her father, her husband, and, if she was lucky, her son. There was a very illogical but real part of my psyche that feared if Hale thought too hard about the first guy leaving me, he might cut and run too. I never wanted him to think I might be defective.
Chewing my lip, my gaze darted to the hall as I sat on the bed of the empty guest room, assuring I wouldn’t be disturbed. I opened a new message.
Dad
I waited for the words to come but they were tied up in some kind of knot. My skin tingled and a woozy sensation sloshed through me.
Should I call him Dad? Did he go by Raymond or Ray?
I shook my head. I was being ridiculous. “It doesn’t fucking matter,” I hissed, then started typing.
Dad, It’s Rayne. I’m writing to let you know that I’m getting married. My wedding is this April. I’d like nothing more than for you to be there. Do you think you could do this one favor for me? You wouldn’t have to worry about travel expenses or anything else. If you’re willing to do this, I’ll take care of everything. I know we lost touch over the years, but you’re still my dad and I can’t imagine this day without you there. Please answer this message and please say yes. It’s the only thing I’ll ever ask of you. Love your daughter, Rayne