Chapter 7
I followed his car at a sensible speed for nearly fifteen minutes until we turned into a quiet, well-kept neighborhood.
The streets were peaceful, almost unnervingly so, lined with towering wild trees whose branches stretched over the road like a protective canopy.
Everything there felt calm and stable, nothing like the chaos boiling inside my chest.
My father slowed down and steered into a narrow driveway that curved gently toward a white modern style house.
It was pristine, elegant, and filled with light.
I hated myself for noticing how beautiful it was.
It looked nothing like our old house, slightly worn and outdated, filled with history and ghosts that never quite left the walls.
I eased my car forward and stopped directly behind his. When he stepped out, he noticed another vehicle pulling in. At first, I could not tell if he recognized me. I shut off the engine and sat there, my heart pounding so loudly it felt like it might shatter the windshield between us.
He stared through the glass and then it hit him.
Recognition flooded his face. I saw it instantly, the stiffening of his posture, the faint sheen of sweat forming on his forehead.
He reacted quickly, almost too quickly, opening the back door and ushering the boys out.
They glanced at me, curious, clearly asking questions.
He bent down, whispered something urgent, and sent them running toward the front door.
Of course.
He was not ready to introduce me to his stepchildren.
With a deep breath, I forced myself out of the car. We stood only a few feet apart, yet neither of us moved. Time seemed to freeze, trapping us in the wreckage of everything we had left unfinished.
I took a step closer. He did not look happy to see me. If anything, he looked unsettled and restless. His eyes flicked toward the house, checking the front door, probably making sure his new wife would not witness this reunion.
How predictable.
I must have been the nightmare he never expected to resurface, standing in his front yard, threatening the life he had so carefully rebuilt.
I had imagined this moment countless times, rehearsed every insult, every curse.
But now, faced with proof that he had already moved on, I realized none of my words carried enough weight to matter.
“Hello, Dad,” I said, my voice nearly choking on the title.
He met my gaze, and for the first time, I saw sadness in his eyes.
“Bailey,” he said hoarsely. “I had no idea you were back in town.”
His eyes lingered on me, studying the changes time had carved into my face. I knew he saw it. I was no longer the naive girl he had left behind. I was twenty-eight now. A single mother. Stronger. Surviving. Despite everything, I had built a life for myself.
“Didn’t you miss your only daughter?” I asked, the bitterness impossible to hide.
“I am just surprised,” he admitted. “It has been a long time.”
It took all my restraint not to laugh. I could still count on one hand how many times he had reached out in the past eight years. The last time I saw him was at my mother’s funeral six years ago.
Up close, the years had not been kind to him either. His once thick black hair was streaked with gray. His body was heavier now, his stomach protruding where he once worked so hard to stay fit. He did not care anymore. Why would he? He had already secured his replacement family.
“Why?” I sneered. “Afraid your new wife might find out I exist?”
“Of course not,” he said quickly. “I would never hide you. I always hoped you would come back, that one day we could be a family again.”
I laughed, hollow and sharp. “What family are you talking about?” I gestured around us.
“This is your family now. I will never be part of it. You replaced us. You have two stepsons to fill Jacob’s place, a young wife, a perfect home.
Give it a year or two and maybe you will have a daughter to replace me too. ”
His face drained of color. He was clearly stunned by my outburst, but I did not care. I had carried this poison long enough.
“Please, Bailey,” he said. “Do not blame Amelie or the boys. She saved me when I was drowning in guilt after your mother left. When she died, I was destroyed. I drank myself into nothing. If I could turn back time, I would fix everything. I would beg your mother to forgive me.”
“You are too late,” I snapped. “You should have fixed it before you let the divorce tear us apart.” My voice shook with anger. “Where were you when I was accused? When I was labeled trash? I needed you. Even if you were not married to Mom anymore, you were still my father, and you failed me too.”
“Mark? Is everything okay?”
His wife’s voice interrupted us from the porch. He turned and gave her a small wave. I looked up and saw her standing there, worry written across her delicate face. She was beautiful, young, soft, radiant, dressed in white like some angel he once promised my mother he would grow old with.
I had had enough.
“It does not matter,” I said coldly. “You have moved on. Goodbye, Dad.”
“Bailey, wait. We are not finished,” he pleaded.
But I was already walking away.
That was when I noticed it, a small, carefully tended garden tucked beside the house. My steps faltered.
White roses.
My mother’s favorite.
Rage crashed through me like a tidal wave. I spun around, my vision burning red. He would not meet my eyes, guilt written all over his face.
“How dare you,” I hissed. “Tell me, do you pick those flowers for your new wife every Sunday too? Do you tell her how much you love her?”
We both knew how deeply my mother adored white roses.
That was why, on their wedding day, she ordered hundreds of them, filling the space with her favorite flower as if it were a promise.
Later, my father built a modest garden behind our old house just for her, a place she tended almost every day with quiet devotion.
It became their ritual. Every Sunday morning, before my mother even woke up, my father would pick a few white roses and place them gently beside her on the bed.
When she opened her eyes, the first thing she saw was her favorite bloom.
It always brought a smile to her face, always brightened her day.
That was how he showed his love for her, faithfully and tenderly, until the day their only son, died and everything they were shattered beyond repair.
“Bailey—”
“Those roses were Mom’s memory,” I screamed, tears blurring my sight. “I hate you.”
I did not look back this time. I walked away for good.