Chapter 124
Mireya
My mother’s daughter
Play - Gilded Lily by Cults
I didn’t know they’d send it there. I’d been using the campus mailboxes all year, so I thought anything from St. Ellesta would end up there. Instead I woke up to a text from my dad saying that he was home already and found my net assignment. It made me sick.
For an hour I thought about ignoring it, and never going back there. But I couldn’t do that.
Instead, I lied to Milo, promising him that we’d get some pizza tonight and that everything would be okay.
Then I left Edna’s house.
I had one night of peace. One last night after graduation before even considering seeing him again.
I know what’s waiting for me. I know how disgusting I’ll feel after this conversation, because that’s how it’s always been. There is no memory of him that doesn’t come with pain and tears. And I knew this moment would come, that he would learn about it.
By the time I reach the house, I’m already exhausted.
I stand there for a few minutes, hands resting against the door. I take a long breath, then another, as I could exhale the panic before I step inside.
Good memories. He can’t destroy good memories.
Then I opened it. He’s already yelling before I even close the door behind me.
Maybe I did fuck up by taking this opportunity. Maybe I should’ve stayed. Worked for another year or two, and left with Milo when we were ready. Perhaps it would’ve been easier, safer.
That’s when I hear his voice in my head.
You did good.
I did. I did good.
A bottle of vodka is half-empty on the counter.
“Mireya.”
His voice slurs my name, heavy with that same drunk anger I’ve known my whole life.
It’s what scares me the most about him, the way he says my name when the alcohol’s taken over, when nothing’s working in his head anymore.
The voice he uses right before he breaks something or slaps me.
Sometimes I think he forgets I’m his daughter too.
“What the fuck is that?” He asks, taking another drink, then he reaches for the envelope on the table. “What. Is. That?”
I don’t move, putting back the same mask I always wear in front of him. The strong daughter. The cold one. The one who never cries. The one who never gives in.
“You tell me.”
He smiles, shaking his head in disbelief, “Strange to not know things that have your fucking name on them.” The glass in his hand lands violently on the table. “Try that again.”
I swallow, crossing my arms tight against my chest. “It’s nothing.”
His fingers tighten around the envelope, and a humorless laugh escapes his lips. “You think I wouldn’t find out?” he says, voice slurring, mean and tired. “St. Ellesta, the FBI bullshit. What, you think you’re better than me now?”
“Listen—”
“Don’t.” He cuts me off, walking closer to me now. And I want to disappear back to the cliffs again, just to avoid facing the first man who ever taught me how unkind this world could be.
“I got a fucking letter from St. Ellesta this morning saying you’re leaving to Virginia? Guess what happened next… I called this fucking school and they told me you were studying there for a whole year. Where was Milo?”
“That’s not it–” I stutter but he is not done.
“You little fucking liar. You were going there leaving your little brother alone. Because what? You think you deserve better? You think this is not enough ? Ungrateful kid.”
“I never said that,” I mutter, keeping my voice low.
I can feel the rage under my ribs already, that small and scared instinct that never went away. The one who never stopped being scared of him.
Remember, your father but never your dad.
“I’m just trying to do something with my life. For me. For Milo.”
He laughs, even if it’s not funny. He laughs because he wants to hurt me.
He knows it does hurt.
Some people touch a bruise without realizing it's there. Some people make a home out of it. And he taught me to do both just by laughing at anything that I did to make him proud.
No matter how hard I try, he’ll never be satisfied.
“For you? You’re just like your mother. Same delusional brain. Same empty eyes. She thought she was gonna be something too. Look where that got her.”
Look what that got her…
“She killed herself because of you,” I lied.
It came out of my mouth like a secret I never said out loud. She didn’t die for nothing. Even if she didn’t do it herself, he would’ve killed her one day or another.
That’s the truth. And he hates it.
The slap comes before I can even blink. My head jerks to the side, my cheek burning. I’ve been hit harder by him before. But this one, this one hurts the most. I’m twenty three now, I shouldn’t be feeling like the old little girl I was before.
I shouldn’t want to cry, or scream, and just pass out from all the tears that would come out. I shouldn’t feel like ending this life would be better for me.
I shouldn’t feel small anymore.
But when it’s him, I always feel small. No matter what.
“Don’t ever say that again. Fucking stupid little girl, you’re just like her.”
Just like her.
The words echo in my skull, louder than the slap. For a second, I can’t breathe. My throat burns and the kitchen tilts.
Am I just like her? Is that a sin to be the daughter of your own mother and carry everything she had to carry?
Isn’t it normal?
I try to speak, but my voice cracks. “I am not her.”
He scoffs, “You’ve got the same crazy in you. Same stupid blue fucking eyes, same stupid ideas. I should’ve known you’d end up useless or dead. AGAIN, JUST LIKE HER!”
Useless.
I stare at the floor because if I meet his eyes, I’ll crumble. I always felt useless, even if Milo says otherwise. Even if Edna and Hayzel say otherwise. Even when Damien says otherwise.
I will always feel useless.
Because somehow, a father’s hate always echoes louder than anyone’s love. And his cruel words weigh more than anyone else’s kindness.
“Don’t talk about her like that,” I whisper.
She was always my mom, even after he destroyed her. She was still my mom.
He steps closer. “Asma ruined everything and now you—”
“STOP!” The word breaks out before I can stop it. My hands are shaking, and my heart is beating so fast I can hear it. “You don’t get to say her name. You broke her! You—”
He grabs my arm, hard. “Watch your mouth.”
I’m tired. I’m tired of explaining life to a wall. I’m tired of being weak.
“You broke her,” I repeat, my voice trembling, “and you’re still breaking everything she loved.”
He lets go of me and looks around. For a second, I think maybe I’ve gone too far.
But I can’t stop now. It’s here, in my rage, that guilt I carry every fucking day because I was too young to stop him from hitting her.
The hate I felt toward her when she would take his defense even when I was fighting for her.
I carry it everyday, in everything I do.
The sorrow I feel looking at myself in the mirror and seeing how damaged I am because he was supposed to protect me but never did.
“You think I don’t remember?” My voice wobbles because I can’t even hate him loudly enough. “You think I forgot what you let them do? To your own daughter, dad… to me!”
He freezes and I take a shaky breath before continuing, “You saw them. You knew. You heard me call for you and you didn’t come. You never came.”
His face twists before he talks, “You don’t know what you’re saying—”
“YES, I DO!” The scream tears out of me.
My chest aches because the memories, the hands, they never left, they never truly disappeared.
“You knew! You fucking knew what your friend did and kept doing for so long and you let it happen! You were supposed to make this home safe, and you… you let the monsters in and became the worst of them all!”
My knees feel weak and I cover my face with my hands, crying so hard it hurts.
I feel like a kid, letting out tears that shake your whole body. The ones that belong to a little girl who still doesn’t understand why love hurts this much.
I still cry like her. Maybe I never stopped being her.
I keep hiding my pain, like feeling broken is something I should apologize for. Like the fault is mine for shaking in front of the man who was supposed to be my safe place and somehow became my own hell.
“I was wearing my favorite pajamas the first time it happened,” I sob.
“The blue ones with the stars. I remember because your friend ripped them apart like I was a toy, and I cried for you to help me, Dad. I cried until my throat bled. You never came. You closed the door on me like I deserved it. And mom told me it was okay, that the pain would disappear. It never did. It’s still here, killing me every fucking day! ”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink.
I drop my hands and look at him, my voice breaking apart. “Why? Why do you hate me so much? What did I do wrong?”
He stares at me like I’m speaking another language. “You’re drunk on your mother’s lies. That’s what’s wrong with you.”
I laugh through the tears. “You always find a way to make it her fault or mine.” He starts to say something, but I cut him off. “No, you listen now.”
My voice rises until it’s almost unrecognizable. “You broke me. You broke me, and now I don’t even know how to sleep at night without wondering what I did wrong! I wake up and I still hear your voice in my head, telling me I’m nothing!”
He tries to grab his glass again. I slap it away.
It shatters against the floor, but I don’t care.
I want to hurt him. I want to let it all out.
Little shards of transparent glass scatter around us, and I can see fragments of myself in them.
Every memory of his anger, his hatred, every version of me that begged him to stop.
It all reflected back in those broken pieces.
“You talk about crazy? You made me this way!” I shout.
“You made me scared of every noise, every hand, every man who looks too long. You made me think love was pain, and I believed you! I still fucking believe you.” He looks startled.
Maybe even guilty. But I don’t care. “Do you know what that does to a kid?” I keep going, voice shaking now.
“To grow up believing your pain isn’t even worth stopping for? ”
He steps closer. “You’re imagining things—”
That’s when it breaks. The years, the silence, the nights of pretending. The hands, the kisses that were never allowed and the bruises that felt like poison on my skin.
“IMAGINING?” I repeat louder. My whole body trembles.
“You think I imagined begging you to come in that room? You think I imagined being afraid to sleep, or flinching every time someone moved too fast? You think I imagined the blood dad? Or mom’s tears when she understood your friend never left after abusing her but came into my room to finish the job? ”
His face goes white.
My chest feels like it’s caving in. I can hear my heartbeat, fast and uneven, like I’m drowning or floating on anger and pain. “Do you know what it did to me, to realize the one person who’s supposed to protect you just… doesn’t? To spend your whole life trying to make sense of why?”
"Stop.”
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I used to beg for his friends to stop. I begged and begged and they never did.
“YOU WERE NEVER MY DAD!” I scream. “I NEEDED A DAD AND YOU WEREN’T THERE!”
The silence after that is unbearable. Only the hum of the fridge, the sound of my own uneven breathing and the voices screaming how tired I am in my own head.
“I begged to be enough for you. I begged you to love me, to see me. You never pushed them away, you let him touch me like I wasn’t even a person.
” My voice is trembling so hard I can barely get the words out.
“You–you just fucking stood there and let it happen. You watched. You fucking watched and you never stopped watching.”
He opens his mouth, maybe to deny it, maybe to throw another insult, but I keep going.
“You made me feel like being born was a mistake. Like every breath I took was something you had to forgive me for. And I still tried! I still tried to make you proud. I gave up everything—my happiness, my sleep, my childhood, my fucking life, just to make you look at me without hate. And you couldn’t even do that. ”
He stares at me. Silent. Maybe for the first time in his life.
“You’ll never understand what it’s like to live with the echo of you in my head, dad,” I whisper as he stares at me in disbelief. “To wake up and still hear you, even when you’re not there.”
I can’t even breathe from how much tears are falling now, but it doesn’t feel weak. It feels honest. For the first time it feels honest and okay to cry in front of him.
“You don’t get to tell me anything. You don’t get to take any more of me. I tried, I really tried. I gave you my childhood, my entire life, and now I have to think about Milo.”
He doesn’t answer and simply looks away.
I wipe my face, grab my bag, and step back. “If you ever touch Milo, if you ever so much as look at him the way you looked at me, I swear to God, you’ll never get to touch anything again.”
He opens his mouth, but I’m already walking out the door. The air outside is cold and sharp. I can still feel the sting on my cheek.
For a second, I think I hear her voice, my mom’s, telling me to keep walking, to never turn back. Even if it hurts, even if it feels like grieving my entire life.
So I do.
I find Milo at Edna’s doorstep, happily tugging at her hand as if she is part of his little world. Edna looks up at me, her eyes calm and reassuring. “Why are you crying?” she asks softly, tilting her head.
I blink, wiping at my red eyes. “Because I’m just like her,” I whisper to myself. “Thanks for taking care of him. Can I stay with you tonight?”
She nods, pulling me in without even asking anything else.
The door closes behind us, and Milo stays in front of me, confused and worried.
“Hi, firefly,” I whisper.
Milo’s little eyes met mine. “You look sad Reya.”
Then, I press a kiss to his hand, and he just smiles up at me.
“Never, when I’m with you.” I hug him tight, feeling his warmth seep into me.
He runs to Blue who was watching us the moment we came back in, leaving me alone at the entrance, trying to breathe correctly again.
How did I survive this long? How did I make it through every night, every scream, every hand I shouldn’t have had to pull away?
Maybe it was because I had a new goal. Milo’s happiness. It kept me alive.
After a few minutes, I walk toward them, putting my big-sister’s mask back on. I stay with them, laughing when all I feel is exhaustion, playing with them, cooking dinner as if nothing happened.
Later, when the house finally grows quiet, I carry Milo upstairs, and tuck him into bed. I pull the blankets around him, smoothing his hair away from his forehead and lean it to let a small kiss on his cheek.
“I love you firefly. Always.”
A big grin appeared on his face and he lifted his hand. “Pinky promise it’s forever?”
“Pinky promise.”