Why should I care?

Why did I feel like I was being torn apart by the news?

For most of my life my father had been a stranger, someone whose only filial gesture was to pay my bills until he decided to cut his losses. I should feel indifferent, this wasn't going to affect my day to day life. I'd still go on into the world as an orphan of sorts with enough associated trauma that I should probably see a therapist about it.

And yet I couldn't stop crying. Somehow I made it through the rest of the working day but as soon as I made it to Miguel's apartment I broke down again.

"I'm sorry," I said as I blew my nose into a tissue. "I don't mean to be such a bother, it's just..."

As I drifted of, all the words I wanted to say tumbled into each other and wedged in my throat. The urge to keep apologizing was strong, but so was the need to hash out every little wrong Alphonse Holt II had ever done to me. The list was long and it would be satisfying going through it, but it wouldn't answer the main question. Which was the reason behind why I cared that he was in his deathbed.

"No, I understand," Miguel said after I managed to ask him why in between sobs and hiccups. He held out a glass of water for me that I took gladly and then continued rubbing circles on my back. "I probably understand better than anyone."

"Oh," I murmured.

"I mean it's different, of course," he said, gaze lost among the incessant lights outside the window of his apartment in Brickell. "My mom was torn away from us in such a horrific way. But the loss is similar."

"I don't think it's the same," I said as I grabbed his hand. It brought his focus back into the room, outside of his head. I shook my head at him. "Your mom loved you and Charlie and your dad. It's much, much worse having lost her."

Miguel stayed silent for a moment before pulling me against him. The angle allowed him to kiss the top of my head.

"Look at that, two kids with loss issues trying to compete over who lost more." His chest rumbled with a low laugh that warmed me. After a while he pulled away to look down at me. I could tell whatever was on his mind bothered him, so I just waited until he was ready. Finally, he said with a thread of voice, "My biggest regret is that I wasn't there, you know? When the robbery went wrong."

My eyes widened. "Why do you say that?"

Miguel's eyes squeezed shut tight.

"I just keep wondering, what if I could've done something?" He winced. "I know, you don't have to give me that look. It's irrational."

"You were just a kid," I shook my head. "Without a gun, mind you."

"Yeah, but so was my sister." That shut me up. "She saw the whole thing and... and worse, and she carries that trauma with her every day of her life. I can't even share that burden with her. All I have is my grief."

"But Miguel." I sighed and dropped the balls of tissues in my hands where they fell so that I could hug him. "You are sharing it. By giving her and your dad all the love that you give them. By helping to make sure that they're living fulfilling lives, not constantly dragged down by the tragedy. That emotional support you give them is your way of sharing in the loss and horror in the best possible way you can manage."

His chin trembled and his eyes misted over. I reached for the tissue box and offered it to him. He took one and dabbed at the corners of his eyes before the tears started to fall.

"In fact," I said softly. "You've even given me some of the same care. Now and in college."

His face scrunched up. "That's really all I know to do."

"And it's all I need, Miguel," I added, kissing the edge of his jaw. "It's much more than my parents ever gave me."

"You deserve so much more," he told me.

That stayed with me for the rest of the night as I debated what to do with the news. I could ignore them, of course, but every fiber of my being rebelled against it.

In the end, Miguel agreed to drive up with me to visit my father. The next day was Saturday and it helped that we didn't have to come up with excuses to get out of work. We just got up in the morning, had a quiet breakfast and got on my Jeep and drove. We were both too wrung out for conversation and spent the drive listening to an audiobook about how to start your own business.

I was expecting the hospice to be a massive, state of the art building created by some modernist architect. Instead it was just a really big house surrounded by flower bushes, with a nondescript sign out front that could be taken as anything from a law firm to a dance academy. It was located close to where our house—actually, his house was.

I was struck by the normalcy. My father had always been the kind of person who wanted the best of the best. It was why he chose the biggest, most majestic house in Winter Park, the most modern and expensive cars, the prettiest wife and why he had never cared for his awkward and too tall daughter.

"Ready?" Miguel asked me after we'd found parking for my car.

I took a deep breath and nodded. We stepped into the building together and he helped me by asking the receptionist about my father. It was silent like a tomb inside, even if the architecture and decor looked like a cute Spanish villa. I thought they'd find someone from staff to guide us, but instead Schmitt met us there. His beady eyes gave Miguel a once over.

"I'm glad you could join us, Miss Holt. But your father wants to see you alone."

I sucked in a breath. Miguel just nodded at me.

"Whatever you want, I'm here for you."

I was so full of gratitude that I didn't even care my father's stuffy lawyer was there, watching us as I gave Miguel a sweet little kiss on the lips. He looked surprised when I pulled away but sent me off with a smile.

That eased me. I followed Schmitt through the surprising maze that the building was, until he stopped in front of a door simply marked with the number seven. He rapped his knuckles and didn't wait for confirmation before he opened the door.

If the appearance of the hospice had been unexpected, my father's was even more shocking. My lungs seized as I saw the myriad of tubes and machines beeping around him. There was someone lying down in the bed, but all I could see was a wispy tuft of white hair. My father's head of hair had been a full blond tone with occasional strands of white. He'd been tall, strong and imposing in the business suits he favored for every occasion. No way would he be reduced to the small, frail old man that I now saw.

"Ah, you finally made it."

But that was undeniably his voice. It had lost the strength behind it, but it was the same tone. The same coldness.

His eyes were unfocused as he directed them somewhere behind me. "Took you long to find her, Schmitt."

His lawyer stepped forward until he was beside me. "She wouldn't pick up the phone for days, sir."

He walked around the bed to take a seat in a chair that was pulled up beside my father. As if he planned to stay.

I cleared my throat, "Didn't you say he wanted to see me alone?"

He waved a hand. "Without the boy, yes. But I'm his lawyer. I must witness his every interaction."

They both jumped as I started laughing. It wasn't a laugh of amusement, but an ugly, jarring hacking sound of anger.

"Out."

They both blinked at me.

I pointed at the door. "Did I stutter?"

"But-" Schmitt started, but as he looked down at my father he found the man to be smiling.

"You heard her, leave us alone."

Gregory Schmitt grumbled and glared, but he left the room and closed the door. No doubt he was behind it, trying to catch every word that was going to be said.

I wasn't planning on saying anything, though. I stood there, trembling with emotions that I couldn't pinpoint. I wanted to strangle my father just as much as I wanted to beg him for answers. Why didn't he love me? Why did he divorce himself from my life, as though I had fault in his legal separation from my mother? As though I cheated him out of happiness, too, when that was what he'd done to me?

He breathed out a raspy breath.

"You've grown a spine, I see."

I pursed my lips. More than that. I'd grown a hard shell outside of me that protected me from bullies like him and my mother, but also kept me emotionally distant from wonderful people I shouldn't have so much difficulty to let into my heart. And he'd done this.

"Why am I here?" I asked.

"Can't you see?" my father asked, lifting a weak, thin hand to motion at himself. "I'm dying. Thought you should know."

"Well, now I know. Can I go?"

"Technically, yes." He gave a small shrug. "Your legs are still young and strong and can carry you away from this room any second. I'm bound to this bed, listening to Schmitt talking shit about everybody who wants a cut of my money every day. Your resentment is a breath of fresh air."

His eloquence with hurtful words was still there, but the deliverance was slow, every word uttered as though it hurt him physically. I could have interrupted, insulted, but I was transported to my childhood. Watching in fascination as my father's tongue dripped indiscriminate venom with the same ease anyone else had to say thank you and please.

I gave it my best shot at being my father's daughter by saying, "Well, it's nothing short of what you deserve."

"You're right," he surprised me by saying. "I deserve this. I've been a subpar father."

I almost laughed again. He could probably see me struggling to hold it together.

"So, is that what this is?" I waved a hand between us. "A merry little get together so you can pretend to make amends?"

"Basically," he admitted.

He fumbled under the blankets until he found the remote that eased his bed up, so he was now as close to sitting as he could. The change of position sent him coughing. It was wrenching to see, but I didn't know what to do. It was strange to feel so many negative things for him and at the same time, be so horrified and sad at what he had become. There was no vitality to him and it struck me at that moment that he really was dying.

He reached for a cup of water on the bedside table, but with his unsteady hand, rather than picking it up it went tumbling down and splashed my feet. He didn't apologize, but I also didn't condemn him for it. I reached over and poured water into a new cup and held it out for him. His expression was almost angry, as if I'd been the one to make the mess, but he grabbed the cup and drank.

"I would've done much better had I kept you in my life. I wouldn't be alone as I lay dying like this."

"You're a selfish bastard," I said through gritted teeth.

"Yes, I am." He nodded, looking down at the cup. "That was the only thing I had in common with your mother. But you," as he said this he looked up at me with tired eyes. "You've never been like us."

That almost felt like a compliment. It prickled my eyes, but I didn't want to cry in front of him.

"Thank God for that," I conceded.

"In a way, I might have done you a favor by cutting you off," he had the balls to say. My visible disbelief made him crack a rusty-ass smile. "You might have become like us if we'd stayed close."

"Fat chance," I said, folding my arms. "I'm not a monster."

He nodded, as if he had the right to agree with that statement.

"Adele, the fact is my days are numbered." That silenced the next insults I'd been about to hurl at him. "I'm on the terminal stage of pancreatic cancer. I can't just die without telling you I'm sorry."

I let out a shaky breath. He didn't call me weak when I started crying like he would have when I was a kid. For the first time, he actually joined me. We shared a box of tissues and talked a while longer, although talking wasn't entirely the right word when all he did was wheeze out words and I attempted to fill in the silences with easy topics. But he wanted to know about what I'd done with my life, about the boy Schmitt had mentioned earlier. About my life in Miami, even though he was disappointed I'd left New York. It was a much better city, in his opinion.

It wasn't until I was back with Miguel that I realized something strange about the conversation, and that was the fact that my father hadn't been completely clueless about my life. He asked for details, because he already knew about my comings and goings. Somehow over the years he'd kept tabs on me, and knowing that cut me deeper than I expected.

i bet this twist wasn't what you were expecting

you bet these chapters make me cry a lot