14 #3
But was there really an age when you stopped wanting your mother’s comfort?
Even if you had someone of your own to comfort you, could anything really replace the comfort of the woman whose arms had been your safe place since you were a little girl, back when the only memory I had of being sick was lying tied to my bed with chickenpox?
Instead, I watched the lift climb through the floors, wondering how I’d somehow managed to hold on to that longing for so long.
Because as sweet as my father had been just before, I knew he wouldn't understand if I told him.
He’d try.
That was almost worse.
Because there was no explanation that made sense.
I could tell him I missed her without wanting her back.
I could tell him I was angry without pretending I didn't love her.
I could tell him that seeing someone have a relationship with their sister had reminded me of something I’d lost that I’d never even had to begin with.
And he'd probably tell me that I had him.
Only, he would say that I had the better parent.
Which was true.
It just wasn't the same thing.
When I eventually stepped out of the shower, the heaviness had settled somewhere behind my ribs.
I changed into my pyjamas, climbed into bed and picked up the book I’d been carrying around for the better part of a week. I’d bought it after seeing it on Tales & Latte’s post, and Ariyanka’s review had intrigued me enough that when I’d spotted it at the airport, I’d grabbed it easily.
I’d managed three pages on the flight here before we were served our meals, after which point I’d gotten addicted to the docu-series they had on Formula One.
If Samyra was adamant about me joining her for the Monaco Grand Prix, including the oh-so-fancy sponsor ball she was planning—with people who actually knew the sport, there was no chance in hell I was going to make the same mistake and show up clueless.
I’d already made a fool of myself once by not knowing enough about the sport I was about to get involved in.
Opening the page I’d bookmarked with my boarding pass, I made it past a single page before I eyed my phone.
Sat on the bedside table it was suddenly far more interesting than the book in my hands. Although I was pretty sure I hadn’t even registered a single thing I had read so far.
I stared at it as curiosity climbed up me.
No.
I looked back at my book.
Absolutely not.
I tried to reason with myself, but the truth was—when I got curious about something, the only thing that scratched the itch was the answer to my questions.
My hand reached for my phone, and before I knew it I was opening up social media and typing my mother’s name in the search bar.
My stomach twisted before the profile had even loaded.
I hadn't searched for her in months, maybe longer but it’d had still been the first one to show up.
Holding my breath, I clicked on it and surprised coursed through me instantly.
There were hundreds of photographs. My mother had always been one to flaunt what she’d got, but as I scrolled through them, I realised there had been something different. Something…warmer.
Ayla.
There were pictures of her everywhere.
Ayla at the beach.
Ayla on holiday.
Ayla covered in cake.
Ayla asleep against Mum's chest.
Ayla laughing while Mum held her hand.
I stared at that one photograph for longer than I meant to.
She looked happy.
Mum looked happy.
They looked like a mother and daughter who had never had to question what they were to each other.
Ayla was almost five.
I did the maths automatically.
Five.
And I couldn't remember Mum doing any of that with me.
Not like this. Not with that kind of ease.
My thumb moved again.
Another photograph.
Another.
Another.
The realisation came quietly.
That was what hurt most.
Francis Hughes had always been capable of being a mother.
She just hadn't wanted to be mine.
I locked my phone.
Immediately, I unlocked it again.
Then, with a force that felt almost ridiculous, I switched it off completely and tossed it onto the bed.
I picked up my book.
Read the same sentence three times.
Nothing.
I tried again before giving up completely and slamming it shut. “This is just brilliant.”
I reached for the remote and turned on the television, scrolling through films until I found one I'd already watched enough times that I didn't have to pay attention. Something mindless and familiar enough that would eventually put me to sleep.
I had barely settled beneath the covers when there was a knock at the door.
I frowned, unsure who’d be knocking on my door. Deciding it was an accident, I refused to move until it came again.
Then another knock.
“One second!” I called out before climbing out of bed and making my way across the room. Sceptical, I looked through the peephole first, my suspicion only growing when I noticed a hotel staff member standing outside with a trolley.
Brows pinched, I slowly opened the door. “Room service for you, Miss.”
I blinked. “I didn't order anything.”
He gave me a nod like he knew that and gave me a short smile. “It was requested by your father.”
My shoulders dropped slightly.
Opening the door wider, I stepped aside to let him in and wheel the trolley inside. I thanked him as he left before walking over to it and lifting the cover, only to find enough food to feed three people.
There was a note tucked beside the plate.
I don’t need to remind you why it’s bad to go to bed on an empty stomach. Got you extra dessert to fix your mood.
- Dad x
Biting my lower lip, I held back the emotion building behind my eyes and grabbed my phone. Unlocking it, I typed out the message.
Me
Thank you, Dad. Love you.
I sent it before I could talk myself out of it.
The reply came almost immediately.
Dad
Love you too. Don’t skip straight to desserts.
I smiled despite my earlier mood. For all the things I couldn't tell him, for all the things he couldn't fix, he was still my dad.
And tonight, that had to be enough.