Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“Nous ne sommes pas une famille de menteurs.”
Frowning, I ask, “What did you just say?”
I get an overly sweet, completely fake smile. “I said I’d like to see my room now.”
It’s a lie and I know it. I’d bet money that she just cursed me in French. I’ll let it go though, and know that for the foreseeable future, I’ll probably have to let a lot of things go as Sylvie settles in.
CHAPTER 6
Ethan
Brooding could be the best descriptor for my mood this morning as I stare at the empty coffee cup before me. I tune out the chatter around the breakfast table, filled by my parents, brothers, and sister. Miranda is at the kitchen sink cleaning up and I find the clink of dishes and silverware a comforting distraction from my dark thoughts.
I glance at my watch and sigh.
That soft sound brings a halt to the talk around the table and everyone turns to look at me.
Our home has a massive formal dining room that seats twenty, but we rarely take meals there unless it’s a holiday. When the family gets together, we usually sit at the big square butcher-block table in the kitchen before a large bay window that looks out over the back pastures. In the distance, a handful of saddlebreds graze on spring grass.
My mother is the first to speak to me directly. “Would you like me to go up and have a word with her?”
I can see how worried she is. “I don’t know.”
“I’d be glad to put something together,” Miranda says from the kitchen sink. “You can take a breakfast tray up to her.”
I shake my head. “She needs to learn to come down and eat with us as a family.”
Those words ring hollow as they’ve all been sitting here for nearly forty-five minutes, their breakfasts finished long ago.
“She probably just needs more time.” This from my father who, while an amazing man who loves his children and family dearly, isn’t the best at handling confrontation. It’s not because his nature is gentle, but because he’s more logically minded. He never sees the need to battle things out but feels that rational discussion is the solution to all problems.
That just isn’t going to work with a nine-year-old girl who is filled with bitterness over her situation, compounded by the sorrow of losing her mother.
Sylvie’s homecoming is not going well. After I showed her to her room yesterday, she immediately demanded to be left alone. And because I’m at a loss as to how to get her to engage with me, I complied. Throughout the rest of the day, family members made individual trips up to her room to introduce themselves. I stood just outside the door where she couldn’t see me and listened to each painful, but short, conversation. My mother put forth the most valiant effort, spending a full fifteen minutes in there with her talking about everything under the sun.
She was the first to approach Sylvie and spent the majority of the time talking about the Blackburn family. Not the history, but the present. She described each of her children, starting with me and ending with the youngest, twins Kat and Abby. She told stories of her home in Ireland and about all the fun things on the farm that Sylvie will be able to do. Sylvie didn’t show one iota of interest, nor did she ask a single question. Mom, grasping at straws, tried to nudge Sylvie into the conversation by asking her questions. They were answered grudgingly and with as few words as possible. It was with a regretful sigh that Mom eventually left her alone.
Kat tried next. She thought maybe speaking about girly things would draw her out. She attempted to talk to her about fashion and makeup, but Sylvie wanted no part of it.
I listened outside the door as my dad made a fumbling attempt to converse, and he was out of there the fastest, giving up after only a few minutes of silence from his granddaughter. Trey and Wade fared no better. They tried humor, which fell flat, and sent the two big men scurrying away.
“I’ll go up and talk to her,” I say.
Sadly, it’s a statement born of duty. Duty is all I have at this moment because I don’t know how to feel about my daughter. I don’t know her. She is still a shock to my system. I’m plagued with doubts and insecurities because I’ve been thrust into a position of responsibility I didn’t ask for nor do I want.
I’ve always been a man of duty. I’ve given my life to Blackburn Farms and sometimes it’s been at the cost of my own happiness. With the great weight of responsibility comes the absolute loss of personal freedom, but it’s something I’ve become accustomed to. Now I have one more weight on my shoulders and I’m clueless about how to deal with it.