Chapter 34
Penelope
From the fetal position on the couch, I find myself cocooned in my mother’s bed. Curled into her pastel sheets, my knees pressed to my stomach, and my hands fisted—as if with that tension, I can physically hold myself together.
I let the shadow of her presence wrap around me. The indent of her against this mattress, the pillow where I bury my face. Whatever is left of her, I draw into my lungs, trying to ease the burn of my heart. If I just stay still enough, quiet enough, maybe I can find space between the crushing waves of self-hatred.
Where does it live, this warped self-esteem of mine? Is it in my mind, my bones, my soul? Because whatever foundation it’s built on is about as stable as Jell-O.
I accepted Tuck’s attention like a gambler on a winning streak: reckless, greedy, convinced it would never run out. Used him as a buffer against the emptiness, as if I deserved even a fraction of the effort he poured into me.
Like, who do I think I am? For god’s sake, I got naked in a spa room with Mia Madson — I know exactly where I rank. I’m not the most beautiful, not the smartest, not the most talented. Definitely not the easiest woman to deal with.
And yet, I took it all for granted. Even when he walked away, I let nearly a whole day slip by before going to apologize.
Only to find out from Susan—wearing an expression filled with vivid disappointment—that it’s too late.
He’s gone. He left. Without me.
I should be satisfied. This is what I wanted, right? I’m the one who pushed Tuck to this—laughed off his efforts, shut him down, made sure he knew exactly how replaceable he was. As if he deserved less respect for believing in me. For wanting me.
There’s no excuse. I’m fucked up. Broken beyond repair. Because what kind of person does this? Rejects something good, something real, then acts surprised when it’s gone?
I curl deeper into the bed, sinking into my past. My mother always told me to fend for myself. To reject boys’ advances. To never rely on anyone. And maybe that shaped me. Left a mark. But it runs deeper than that.
Am I really so textbook? Just another case study in fatherless daughters with intimacy issues?
A sharp heat flares in my stomach, anger taking root, spreading through my limbs.
Why ?
That was always the first question.
Why didn’t my father love me enough? To ever wonder if I was okay? If I was safe? If I was happy? Time passed. No answers. So I made up my own. It must’ve been me. Something I did, something I lacked.
It crept in, always. On birthdays, holidays—those moments when people are supposed to feel loved, celebrated. Instead, I felt invisible.
I graduated, knowing he wouldn’t be in the crowd. My first big fashion job—and he would never know what that achievement meant. One day, if I have a child, they’ll never know their grandfather. The absence stretches wider, deeper.
Maybe that’s why I act out, why I chase attention in all the wrong ways. Being noticed for something—anything—feels better than fading into nothing.
For years, anger filled the space he left. I pushed people away before they could leave me. I filled the void with work, distraction, and men who never stood a chance. Anything to quiet the ache, even for a little while.
Because he was supposed to be there. He was supposed to love me.
People don’t get it. “It wasn’t you—that’s just your father. He had his own demons,” my grandmother said. As if that erases the pain.
It always comes down to the same thing. If he’s my father, then why did he just let me go?
I don’t expect an answer. There’s never been one. Just silence, thick and suffocating, pressing in from every direction.
Now my body aches from being curled in on itself for too long, stiff and hollow.
I slowly peel myself from the bed, shuffle to the kitchen, and stand there, staring blankly into the fridge.
Shutting the door, I turn to the freezer, pawing through its contents, choosing a frozen meal. Meals left by those well-meaning women at my mother’s funeral. Someone who probably made it in a kitchen filled with warmth, conversation, and a family who actually stuck around.
The containers are stuck together. I grip a knife, working it between them, but my hands are clumsy, numb.
The blade slips.
A sharp sting. Then, a bright drop of blood lands against the countertop.
Shit. I let the knife clatter into the sink and clutch my arm, the cut already welling with more crimson. I move to the faucet, watching the diluted red swirl down the drain as I rinse it under cold water.
So stupid.
The sight of my blood shouldn’t rattle me. But it does. Not because it hurts—if anything, I’m relieved it’s not worse. It’s the silence that follows. No one rushing in with concern. No one there to see. To help. To remind me I’m someone worth keeping.
I press a wad of paper towel to the wound, and it briefly snags on my bracelet. And I guess the cord must’ve taken the hit with the knife, too. Because all of a sudden, it gives. Just like that.
The band unravels and slips into the sink. My so-called protective shield, undone. Its frayed ends splayed like a warning—or a sign.
My pulse pounds, sharp and insistent.
Maybe it’s time.
Time to stop hiding behind old beliefs, bad habits, and tired excuses. To stop avoiding the one question that’s haunted me all my life.
Time to see him. And find out why I was never enough.
* * *
An erratic night’s sleep. But I wake surprisingly determined.
By mid-morning, I’m on the road, thinking that a drive to unpack the wreckage of your past shouldn’t be this picturesque.
But here I am, coasting down winding roads lined with towering pines, past open fields dotted with wildflowers, their colors too bright, too cheerful.
Mountains rise in the distance, rugged and unmoved by the weight pressing on my chest. The occasional glimmer of water winks at me through the trees, sunlight dancing over the surface as if the world is indifferent to the unease churning inside me.
I pass signs for charming old B&Bs and historic hotels, places where honeymooners and families stay for a taste of rustic beauty. Tourists meander along scenic trails, stopping to snap photos while I’m poised to walk into my broken history. Something I never got to fix.
Ellensbrook appears as a neat little town tucked into the folds of the landscape, its storefronts pristine, its sidewalks tidy. The kind of place that pretends it has no ghosts.
But I know better.
His house is exactly where the internet said it would be. Just as obnoxiously cozy as my late-night stalkerish searches suggested: traditional paintwork, gingham curtains, a sturdy porch built to last. Like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Like something a man who abandoned his daughter shouldn’t get to have.
I don’t give myself time to hesitate. Before my usual cycle of overthinking can kick in, I shove open the car door, climb the steps, and—propelled by a sudden panicked surge—rap hard on the screen door.
There’s music playing inside.
Jimmy Buffett for goodness’ sake: “ Blew out a flip flop, stepped on a pop top… ”
Well, I’m literally on the threshold of blowing away way more than that, and it’s gonna take a whole lot more than a blended margarita to make it right.
The screen door rattles as footsteps approach over the polished floorboards.
I exhale sharply, tip my head back, and beg the sky to sustain me.
Then the door squeaks open.
I brace myself—
But it’s not him.
Cornflower blue eyes, rust-red hair tucked into a bandanna, and clutching…a giant cleaver knife.
I take a step back.
She blinks at me.
“Gosh. Penelope?”
I hesitate. Have we ever actually met? No. Definitely not. But I know her name, too: Laurie. I even know her kids’ names: Sarah and Beau. But I never got the opportunity to meet my father’s wife.
Laurie’s face shifts from surprise to a kind of confused delight. “Oh my goodness—it is you!” She falters for a second, then lifts her arms as if to embrace me, before remembering the lethal weapon in her hand.
She lets out a self-conscious laugh. “Oh! Sorry! I’m breaking down the fish your father caught a month ago that’s wedged in the freezer. I’m making chowder!”
Chowder.
Of course, she is. Of course, she’s friendly, soft, and big-bosomed and makes chowder. Almost impossible to hate. Almost.
Before I can gather myself, she waves me insistently through the door, her energy a force of nature that makes resistance feel ridiculous.
“Come on in—he’s just out back.”
I hesitate, glancing over my shoulder at my car, the road, the exit. The escape. My pulse kicks up. It feels like I’m a little kid being lured into a ghost house, the warning bells in my head clanging in protest.
But she’s already bustling ahead, chattering away as if my presence here is the most natural thing in the world. “I’ll put on some coffee—are you hungry? You’ve come all the way from Blue Mountain Lake?”
I don’t remember deciding to move, but somehow I’m inside, standing awkwardly in the entryway as she disappears into the kitchen. The house smells like garlic and simmering broth, like worn wood and something vaguely sweet. The kind of smells that make a place feel lived in.
I shift uneasily, my gaze drifting.
Photos.
They’re everywhere—framed along the walls, lining the tops of bookshelves, clustered on the mantel like a shrine to a life well-lived. I step closer before I can stop myself. A wedding photo: her in a gauzy dress, my father looking solid and settled beside her. Other pictures with her grown children, smiling with him.
A family. A real one. The kind that sits around this sturdy dining table. The kind he got to have while I never did. The family he chose over me.
Something sharp and hot curls low in my stomach, and I fold my arms tight against it, seeking control over my rising emotions.
Laurie moves about the kitchen, the clang of a spoon against a pot, the hiss of fresh coffee brewing. The whole scene feels so goddamn normal.
And I have no idea what the hell I’m doing here.
She pours me a glass of iced water, the cubes clinking softly against the glass, and then disappears down the hall to summon my father. I stare at the drink warily, as if consuming it would mean fully stepping into this alternate reality where I am here, in his house, in his life—a life that went on perfectly fine without me.
When my father walks in, he’s wiping his hands on his jeans, looking like some picture-perfect sitcom dad who just finished mowing the lawn or fixing a leaky faucet. A man who has a home to take care of. A family to tend to.
“Penny?” His voice is rough with concern. He hesitates, his gaze scanning me like he’s searching for signs of damage. “Are you alright? What happened to your arm?”
I look at the bandage on my wrist, feeling suddenly vulnerable. I came here to raise hell. To yell and point and get things off my chest. To tell him how much he messed up my heart, my head, my life.
But my throat closes up, filled with thick wads of doubt, confusion, and uncertainty.
Dad glances back at Laurie, something unspoken passing between them, and then, as if reassured, he steps closer.
“Er—why don’t we sit down?” He gestures toward the dining table.
There’s a vase of dried flowers in the center, resting on a woven runner. It’s all so…homely.
I shake my head. The lump in my throat swells, threatening to choke me.
“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head, my voice sounding hoarse, foreign. “This was a mistake—”
I turn for the door, but my legs don’t seem to want to cooperate.
“Penny—” Dad reaches for my arm.
And that’s it.
His careful touch, the worry in his eyes…my childhood rushes up to meet me as he tentatively puts an arm around me.
The tears spill hot and insistent as he grips my shoulders, easing me down into a chair.
I cover my face, trying to stem the flow, trying to stop —but there’s too much. Too many years of resentment, confusion, anger, and loneliness bubbling up at once.
“I just don’t understand,” I choke out between sobs. “How could you just… leave me?”
Silence stretches between us, thick and pulsing.
“I didn’t leave you, Penny.” His voice is quiet, steady.
I drop my hands from my face, blinking up at him. “You weren’t there.”
“No,” he agrees. “Because I was weak, Penny. I’ve always been weak. Your mother was the strong one. She made the right choice, taking you away. I wasn’t fit to be your father back then.”
I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “I’m what ruined things between you. Neither of you wanted me. Having me ruined your relationship.”
He grips my hands, leaning forward, intent. “That’s not true. We both adored you, Penny! But I was an addict. We had some good years, us three altogether. Until it all got out of hand. It was me—I was the one who destroyed everything. Your mother knew she deserved better than me. That you deserved way better. And she made the right choice. As much as I hated it, she was right.”
I shake my head. “No. You don’t get to make it sound noble. You weren’t there, Dad. You didn’t even try.”
“I did try,” he says softly. “For years, I tried to fight it. The drinking, the drugs, the darkness. But I lost. Over and over again. You said it yourself—all those calls and promises I made you? It wasn’t fair to you.”
I stare at him, my breath coming fast and shallow. “You just gave up on me. That was your choice. Even when you got better, you went and had a new family instead of trying again with us.” I slit a furtive look toward the kitchen.
But instead of avoiding me and my ill intent, Laurie brings over coffee, cookies, and a box of Kleenex before silently taking a seat across from me.
“It was the addiction that ruined everything,” Dad says, his voice thick. “And I live with that every day.”
Laurie clears her throat. “Penelope, do you know that your father and I met at a detox center? I was…lost, too. After my first husband died, I spiraled. Prescription pills, alcohol—it nearly ruined me.” She looks at Dad with something deep and knowing. “We helped each other claw our way out.”
My gaze shifts back to my father. The man I barely know. A man who has been through a lot, who made choices I still don’t know how to forgive.
I reach for the tissues, my body exhausted from the emotional purge.
“Penelope. Stay a while,” Laurie says softly. “This is obviously eating at you, and it’s understandable. And I know talking might not fix the past, but it might give you some answers.”
I should say no. I should grab my keys, walk out the door, and leave my father behind the way he left me.
But I don’t.
Instead, for once, I give in. Let myself sink into the chair…and listen.