Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
“Hello, Jo,” he begins, his voice calm and his words deliberate. “If you’re watching this, then you’ve already discovered certain truths about your existence. I made this video because I wanted to tell you, in my own words, about how you came to be, and why I was not allowed to be a part of your life until now.”
I bite my lip, gripping the edge of the desk. My pulse is racing. He continues, and his words unfold a story I had never expected to hear from his side.
“Your mother and I met when she was very young. She was sixteen, though she told me she was nineteen. I believed her. I had no reason not to. I was thirty-two at the time. It was a brief relationship. There was affection, a certain spark, but I confess I did not love her. I loved the idea of having a child, though. I had never been able to father a child before. And when I learned she was carrying you, I was overjoyed. Absolutely overjoyed. I cannot tell you, Jo, how much you were wanted. All my dreams came true that night when Tracey told me she was pregnant. I figured my deep love for you, unborn as you were, would be enough, that I could learn to love Tracey.”
I feel a strange ache in my chest. Joy. Relief. My father didn’t choose to abandon me. And yet there is also a bitter feeling — why had I been kept away from this man all of my life?
I think of all of the different excuses my mum used over the years – he was a one-night stand, and she doesn’t even remember his name. A lie. He left, and she had no way of contacting him. Another lie. He was abusive. Looks like that is another lie. Lies. Lies. Lies. It’s all she’s ever told me. And now maybe I will finally get the truth, because my father has no reason to lie at this point. It’s not like he has to answer to me.
“Your mother, though,” he says, his voice catching slightly. “Well, she saw things differently. She realized quickly that I did not love her. Only the child she carried in her belly. And in her own way, she decided to punish me. If she could not have my love, she would ensure I could not have you. She threatened me. She told me, if I ever attempted to be in your life, she would ruin me. She would make the world believe I was a predator, a criminal. A pedophile who had raped her. I had no choice but to withdraw, as painful as that was. If she ruined my reputation, that was one thing, something I would have lived with to have you in my life, but what court would allow a man accused of such a thing to be a father anyway? And I figured if I left, when you were old enough, I could explain. If you thought I was some sort of pervert, you might never hear me out.”
My hands are shaking violently with shock, and I have to press them to my lap, gripping them together so tightly that my knuckles turn white.
“I wasn’t allowed to be in your life,” he continues. “But I watched you grow up. Every step of the way. I even had men watching you and protecting you when you were out late at night. From afar, I followed your life quietly. I was proud of you. Every step you took, every achievement, every moment of your growth … I cherished it, even without you knowing. You were my daughter. My only daughter. The love of my life. And in my heart, I celebrated you in every way I could, even if I had been forced to do it anonymously.”
I reach out, pause the video, and squeeze my eyes shut. My mind is spinning. It all makes sense now. That time I was drunk, and that guy who stepped out of nowhere and beat off the man who had tried to accost me. That feeling all my life of being followed, but I just brushed it away as me being fanciful or downright silly. Of course, no one is following you.
The betrayal, the secrets, the lies my mother told - all of it washes over me in one tidal wave. My chest feels tight, and small, hot trickles of tears slip down my cheeks. My father loved me. My father really loved me. He came in spirit to all my plays. I wipe the tears away, but they keep coming, and I let them, letting them drip off my chin and onto my hands in my lap.
A grand anger is filling my heart. My mother had kept my poor father away from me for all of those years. She knew how much I longed for a father, and never once did she think her petty revenge was less important than my happiness. For twenty-six years, she had shaped my life with her mean vengeance, keeping me from my father. I wonder if she ever believed she was doing the right thing by me, or if she began to believe her own lies.