Chapter 9 - THE FATHER I MOURNED TWICE
I was sixteen when Diane told me Dad had died in a highway accident in Arizona.
There was no funeral.
She said the body had been cremated before transport because of the damage.
I believed her.
Why wouldn’t I?
Children don’t expect their mothers to invent deaths.
Henry paused the video.
“Do you want to continue?”
“Yes.”
My voice barely worked.
Grandpa explained.
My father had not died in an accident.
He had left Diane.
There had been years of financial fights, manipulation, and accusations.
Michael moved west and tried to maintain contact with Brielle and me.
Diane stopped him.
She changed our phone numbers.
Returned letters.
Moved twice.
Then told us he was dead.
“Why?” I asked.
Diane finally spoke.
“Because he abandoned us.”
“You told me he was dead.”
“He was dead to me.”
I stared at her.
“You let me mourn him.”
“You were better without him.”
Grant put his hand near mine but waited.
I reached for it.
Grandpa’s recording continued.
Years later, Michael discovered where I was living and contacted Grandpa.
Grandpa wanted to tell me.
Michael refused.
He had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
He said he didn’t want to return only to die in front of me.
Instead, he wrote letters.
Dozens.
Grandpa kept them because Michael believed I should receive them when I was ready.
“When did he really die?” I asked.
Henry checked the documents.
“When you were twenty-five.”
Nine years after my mother held me while I cried over his supposed death.
Nine years in which I could have spoken to him.
I turned toward Diane.
“Did you know he had cancer?”
She looked away.
That answered me.
Brielle started sobbing.
“You told me the same thing.”
Mom snapped, “I did what I thought was best.”
“No,” I said.
My voice was strangely calm.
“You did what gave you control.”
Security had already contacted police regarding the forged report and attempted financial fraud.
When officers entered the room, Diane suddenly looked small.
Not harmless.
Just smaller than the power I had given her in my mind.
As they prepared to escort her out, she turned toward me.
“Natalie, you still don’t understand something.”
“What?”
“Your father wasn’t trying to contact only you.”
I frowned.
She looked at Brielle.
Then back at me.
“Michael knew one of you wasn’t his daughter.”
May you like
Brielle stopped crying.
And for the second time that day, my mother shattered the history of our family with a single sentence.
