Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Keane
Day Sixty-Three
One of the hardest parts while dealing with my daughter’s death is realizing I don’t miss Ophelia the way I should. Not the real her, not the woman she was. What I miss—what leaves this gaping, raw wound—is what she meant to me. I’m over her and yet I miss what she gave me, what she represented.
Philly made me feel like I belonged somewhere: like there was a version of me that could be better, brighter, more whole. She had this way of looking at me, not through me, like most people, but into me. She saw all the jagged, broken pieces I tried to keep hidden. But instead of turning away, she leaned closer. She tried to glue them back together.
She made me believe I wasn’t just the sum of my mistakes. All the fuckups didn’t define me.
Before her, I’d spent my life fighting to prove myself—working so hard to be worth something to someone. And then she came into my life, and it was like she’d already decided I was enough. I didn’t have to ask for it; didn’t have to beg for it. She loved me simply because I was me.
And how sad and fucked up is it that I miss that feeling more than I miss her?
It’s a bitter thing to admit. Selfish, even. But it’s the truth. She was the one person who made me feel safe in my own skin, like I could let my guard down and the world wouldn’t fall apart.
I think about her sometimes. If the letter I sent to her was enough to forgive me. If there’s something more I have to do to tell her how sorry I am for all that I put her through.
Maybe I need to write her again, let her know that I’m sorry for the loss of our little girl. Be honest with her, tell her that even though back then it didn’t seem like I wanted her, deep down I did. That I miss what we couldn’t have . . . Is it worth it?
I can’t tell her that I don’t miss her as much as I thought I would. Maybe this time I should thank her for letting me believe I could be better, even when, in the end, I failed her.
And now, all I can do is sit here, staring at this notebook, trying to understand what it all means—trying to understand why I can’t cry for her the way I should. Trying to understand why, after everything, I still need her to feel like I’m anything at all.
Sixty-three days, and I’m still lost. Still searching for something I’ll never find.
And maybe that’s exactly what I deserve.