Stolen Moments

I walk into my house to find it eerily silent yet again. We’ve been living here for years now, and it still doesn’t feel like home. I feel more at home at the Clarke’s. It’s not exactly surprising either, since I spend more of my waking hours there than I do here. Thankfully, Helen wasn’t too angry after last week’s Nair prank. I hate it when she’s mad at me. I would’ve hidden out in my house without a doubt, but luckily she’s been acting like nothing happened. So has Carter — he hasn’t retaliated yet, and I wonder if it’s because he feels bad about Zach. I ran into Zach the other day, and he immediately made an excuse to get out of talking to me. I hope Carter feels terrible about ruining that for me.

I check my watch and bite down on my lip. It’s almost nine pm. When we first moved here dad would always be home by the time I got back from dinner at the Clarke’s, and every once in a while he’d actually come back to have dinner with me. When did things change? I think we’ve only been having dinner together once a month in the last two years. Recently he’s been staying away until I’m already fast asleep.

My mood drops, and I walk towards the staircase. I miss him. I miss the way dad and I used to be. We used to hang out together, and he’d take me to eat junk food without my mom’s permission. It’s like I lost him when he lost my mother. I can’t even remember the last time we really talked. It’s like he stopped trying once he realized that I have Helen and Kate. Sometimes it feels like I’m a chore he puts up with. An unwanted reminder of my mother and the life he lost.

I jump when the front door opens with force. Dad walks in with a huge scowl on his face that transforms into pure anger when he spots me standing by the stairs.

“You’re home,” I say. He drops his briefcase to the floor and it pops open, a myriad of legal documents falling out. Looks like he’s preparing for yet another case. He doesn’t even glance at the papers. Instead, he’s looking at me with barely contained rage. I have no idea what’s wrong, but I’m certain I’m in trouble somehow.

“Emilia, do you want to explain to me why your mother called me to say you’ve been harassing her?”

My heart drops and I freeze. Harassing her? “I didn’t,” I retort. He narrows his eyes and stares me down the way I imagine he does criminals in court. I’m immediately intimidated. He is, after all, the John Parker, the public prosecutor that put a drug cartel behind bars a month ago.

“Did you send her countless emails and track her down on Facebook? She said you’re stalking her. Is that true?”

My heart shatters. She called dad to say I’m stalking her? Why didn’t she just reply to any of my emails? Why didn’t she just tell me she wants nothing to do with me?Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

“Is it true?” he repeats.

I nod and then shake my head instead. “It’s not like that, Dad. I found her profile on Facebook, and it had her email address on it. I just sent her a few emails to ask how she was doing.”

My dad walks up to me. I’ve never seen him look so mad before, and definitely not at me. I don’t understand what I’ve done wrong. Suddenly, he grabs my shoulders and shakes me. I’m so shocked, I don’t even know how to respond. Dad has never acted this way before — he’s never so much as punished me. It’s always Helen that grounds me when I deserve it.

“Emilia, why won’t you get it through your head? She left us,” he shouts. “She wants nothing to do with either of us. Today was the first day I spoke to her in years, and it was because you’ve been harassing her! Are you crazy?” He’s trembling, and the despair in his eyes is obvious. Just what did she say to him?

I bite down on my lip to keep from crying, but a tear drops down my cheek nonetheless. I’ve never felt this unwanted before. All I wanted was to talk to her. “Dad, I just wanted to know if she was happy. If she missed me. I thought maybe she’d want to see me…” I feel silly for wanting to reach out. I feel like a fool for missing my own mother.

Dad lets go of me and takes a step back. He pulls a hand through his hair, looking exhausted. When did he get this grey? He’s thinner than he’s ever been, and he’s got bags underneath his eyes that never seem to go away. It’s been seven years, but my dad looks like he’s aged decades since my mother left. I wonder if the reason he loses himself in his work is because it allows him to forget about her — about me.

“She doesn’t want to see you, Emilia. I wish it were different, but it is what it is. Promise me you won’t contact her again. Why do you even want to speak to her at all?”

I sniff and look away. “I just miss her, dad. Why can’t I miss my mom? Why is it so crazy that I might wonder if she misses me too?”

Dad sighs and shakes his head. “Honey, do you even remember her? She never even spent much time with you. What could you possibly be missing?”

I look down at my feet, unable to explain why I feel the way I do. He’s right, I never spent much time with my mother. I’d usually be with a babysitter instead. But still, she’s my mom. You only get one mother in life, and she’s mine. I love Helen with all my heart, but she’s not my mother, not truly. Yet if she can love me the way she clearly does, then surely my mother loves me even more?

“Dad, you’re never here. You’re always working and always pawning me off to the Clarke’s. I love them, and they take great care of me, but they aren’t my real family. You and Mom are. I’m always alone in the house or I’m at the Clarke’s, and I miss having a family. Why shouldn’t I get in touch with my own mother?”

Dad frowns and looks away, dismayed. “I’m never home because I work my damn ass off to provide for you, Emilia. When your mother left, she took half of everything I own. She took your damn college fund! The woman took your future away, and you still want to get in touch with her?”

I look at him in disbelief. Surely that isn’t true. Even if they did split their assets evenly, I doubt she’d have asked for my college fund specifically, and even so, I know we’re far from struggling. We’re not as well off as before my parents divorced, but we’re definitely not doing so bad either.

Dad shakes his head at me. “You’re so ungrateful, Emilia. Just like Isabella. You’re just like your mother.”

He pushes past me and walks up the stairs. He’ll undoubtedly disappear into his room for the rest of the night. Our conversation is clearly over. I sink to my knees on the floor and try my best to hold back my tears. I never meant to be ungrateful — I just wanted to talk to my mother. I just wanted to know if she ever thinks of me at all. If she regrets leaving me.

I stare at the front door. All I want to do is hide and burst into tears in private. I want to sob my heart out, and I don’t want my dad to find out how hurt I am. I pick myself up off the floor and walk out, closing the door behind me silently.