8. Riven #2
"We're done here." I turned and started walking.
"You can't avoid this forever!" he called after me.
I didn't answer. Just walked until I reached my office and shut the door firmly enough to be heard.
My hands were shaking as I sat at my desk and stared at nothing. I tried to breathe past the tightness in my chest.
August had no right appearing at my workplace, cornering me in public, demanding I deal with things I'd made explicitly clear I wanted no part of.
The estate. The inheritance. My father's legacy.
It could all rot for all I cared.
I stayed at the hospital until well past seven—long past when I should’ve left. By the time I drove home, the rage had transformed into something colder, more restless and corrosive.
When I arrived home, I could hear music blasting and could smell something in the kitchen.
Mireya emerged, smiling brightly. "Hey. I ordered from your favorite place. Figured you'd be starving after that valve replacement."
I barely looked at the containers on the counter. "I'm not hungry."
Her smile faded. "Oh. Okay. I can put it away—"
"Where's Emma?"
"In her room. Doing homework."
I walked past her without another word, down the hallway. Emma's door stood open, light spilling out. She sat at her desk with headphones on, surrounded by textbooks and papers covered in chemical equations.
I knocked. She pulled off the headphones.
"It's after ten," I said. "Why are you still up?"
"Homework. AP Chem is killing me." She gestured at the mess. "Almost done though."
"You should've finished earlier."
Her eyebrows went up. "I was working on it all evening. I took breaks."
"You're supposed to be resting. Not staying up late."
"Riv, I'm fine. My vitals have been perfect. Mireya checked them this afternoon."
Hearing her name made something twist in my chest.
"I don't care about your vitals," I said. Sharper than I meant. "You need sleep. Finish tomorrow."
Emma stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "What's wrong with you?"
"Nothing. Go to bed."
"You're being weird."
"Emma—"
"Fine. Whatever." She closed her textbook. Hard. "I'm going to bed. Happy now?"
I didn't answer. I just turned and walked back down the hallway.
Mireya was in the kitchen, putting away containers with careful movements. She looked up when I entered.
"Is Emma okay?"
"She's fine. Just up too late."
"She was doing homework. I checked on her every hour like you asked."
"Maybe you should’ve told her to stop earlier." The words came out harsher than I meant.
Mireya's hands stilled. "Excuse me?"
"Emma needs rest. You're monitoring her recovery."
"I'm monitoring her. Her vitals are perfect. She's doing everything right." Her voice stayed calm, but there was steel beneath it. "She's fifteen. Taking AP classes online. Sometimes homework takes longer."
"Sometimes someone needs to enforce appropriate boundaries."
"I did enforce boundaries. I made sure she took regular breaks. I checked her vitals and reminded her to stay hydrated." Her eyes flashed. "I did exactly what you hired me to do."
Part of me knew she was right. I knew I was being unfair. But the anger from August, from the surgery, from everything, needed a place to go.
“Did you put today’s mail in my office?” I asked abruptly.
She blinked, visibly confused. “Yes. I thought—”
“I asked you to leave it on the coffee table. Not my office.”
“I know. But there was a lot today, and the coffee table had Emma’s art stuff on it. So I just—”
I interjected. “So you ignored what I asked.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. Her eyes flashed.
“Are you seriously upset about where I put the mail?”
I ran a hand through my hair. “I’m upset that you’re not following simple instructions.”
“Simple instructions.” She set the container down, giving me her undivided attention. “Riven. What’s happening right now?”
“Nothing. I’m trying to maintain basic organization—”
“That’s nonsense.” Her voice rose. “You’re picking a fight. Over mail. Over Emma’s homework. Neither of those is the real problem.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” She crossed her arms tightly. “You came home angry about something else. Now you’re taking it out on me. Over things that don’t matter.”
“They do—”
“The mail was on your desk instead of the table. Emma stayed up an extra hour with perfect vitals. These are not real problems.”
My hands curled into fists at my sides. “Maybe the problem is that you're overstepping. You're here to provide nursing care for Emma. Not rearrange my life. Not make executive decisions about my home.”
The words rushed out before I could stop them, harsh and cutting.
Her face froze. “Right. I’m just the hired nurse. How could I forget?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said.” Her voice dropped. “I’m here to do a job. Follow instructions. Not think for myself. Not make basic decisions about mail when the table is crowded.”
“Mireya—”
“No. You’re right. I overstepped. I’ll follow your instructions more carefully from now on.” She turned and walked toward her room. “Enjoy your evening, Dr. Cross.”
The formality of my title felt like a slap.
I stood there alone, surrounded by the Thai food she'd thoughtfully ordered, feeling worthless and small.
I started toward my office.
Halfway down the hall, I stopped.
I glanced towards her door and like I thought, it was closed.
I raised my hand to knock, then dropped it.
What would I even say?
I turned to leave.
“Riven?”
I looked back. Her door had opened. She stood in the doorway, one hand on the knob, her expression calmer now but guarded.
My chest ached.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "About the mail. I should’ve moved Emma's art supplies first. And I should’ve made Emma go to bed earlier. You're right—I wasn't following your instructions properly."
The apology was far more than I deserved. Guilt twisted like a blade between my ribs.
“You don’t need to apologize.”
"I do. You gave me a place to live when I had absolutely nothing. And I repaid you by not listening to simple requests."
“Mireya—”
"Are you okay?" she asked suddenly, her voice gentle.
The question caught me completely off guard. "What?"
"Are you okay? Something's wrong. I can tell."
"I'm fine," I said automatically.
She was quiet for a moment, just watching me with those perceptive eyes that saw past every defense I'd carefully constructed. Then she nodded slowly. "Okay. If you say so."
"I'm fine," I repeated, trying to convince one or both of us. "And I'm sorry for snapping. For being unfair. You're right—the mail and Emma's homework aren't the actual problem."
"I know," she said simply.
I turned around to leave. But my feet remained frozen.
So I turned back around.
"Did you love your father?" I asked abruptly. "Before he left?"
She blinked, clearly not expecting that question. "I... I don't know. I didn't hate him. But I barely remember what I felt. He was just there. Until he wasn't."
I nodded, staying quiet for a moment.
Then the words slipped out before I could stop them.
“I didn’t like my father.”
It felt strange saying it aloud. Like admitting something shameful. Something you’re supposed to keep hidden.
“My mother died giving birth to Emma.” This was a memory I hadn't visited in years. “There were a lot of complications. Emma never got to meet her.”
Mireya said nothing. She just listened with complete attention.
"My father looked at Emma like she had taken something from him.
He never said it explicitly, but he communicated it in a thousand other ways.
He never held her. Never comforted her when she cried.
He'd just stare at her with this... cold resentment.
Or if he was too irritated, he'd call me to handle it.
" I leaned against the wall, suddenly exhausted.
"When it became too unbearable, he hired a nanny.
That gave him permission to spend more time away from home.
I think he loved our mother so much that he ended up hating us for existing. "
The words kept flowing, years of suppressed truth.
“Emma was seven when she asked me why Dad didn’t love her.” My throat went tight and dry. “My heart ached when she asked me that, I felt like a complete failure.”
Mireya's eyes softened with unshed tears, but she didn't interrupt.
“I told her he did love her. That he was just sad about Mom. That it wasn’t her fault.” I rubbed my face roughly. “I lied to her. Because the truth was worse. The truth was he blamed a baby for something she had no control over.”
The words poured out now—years of them, festering like an infected wound.
“He would bring home different women every few months. Emma would try so hard to make them like her. To make him notice her. She'd draw pictures, make cards, try to be absolutely perfect." My voice cracked. "And he was so exhausted by her efforts that he sent her to boarding school instead."
I could still see Emma standing in the driveway with her little suitcase, trying not to cry because she thought if she cried, he'd be even more disappointed.
“She would write him letters from school every week. ‘Dear Dad. Guess what I learned today. Guess what I drew in art class. Guess what.’” I looked at Mireya. “He never wrote back. Not once.”
Mireya’s eyes were shining with tears.
"When she got sick—when she was dying from heart failure and I was so terrified I'd lose her—he visited the hospital exactly twice.
Twice in six months of critical illness.
Both times with whatever girlfriend he had at the moment.
He'd stay for maybe an hour, check his watch repeatedly, then leave. "
My hands shook violently. I shoved them into my pockets.
"She almost died. And he couldn't even be bothered to stay. Couldn't sit with her, hold her hand, tell her she mattered to him."
I took a shuddering breath. It physically hurt.
“He died nine months ago. You want to know the worst part?” I looked at her. “I felt relieved. Relieved that Emma could finally stop trying to earn love from someone who was never going to give it to her.”
Tears streamed down Mireya's face. She didn’t try to offer any words of comfort. She just listened, lending me her ears, and bearing witness to my pain.
“He left everything to me. His house in Connecticut. His investment portfolio. His entire estate. Like money could somehow make up for it. As if inheritance replaces being an actual father and money fixes the damage of a child spending her entire life wondering why her dad couldn’t love her.”
My voice broke completely. “I don’t want his house or his money. I don’t want any of it. Taking it feels like saying what he did was okay and the way he treated Emma was acceptable.
“Emma still asks about him sometimes. Still tries to remember the good moments that probably never existed. And I let her. Because she deserves to remember him however she needs to.” I swallowed hard.
“But I remember the truth. I remember every single time he made her feel unwanted.
Every letter he ignored. Every time she asked if Daddy was coming home and I had to make up another excuse. "
I looked at Mireya through blurred vision.
"So when August Cross showed up today demanding I claim my inheritance, deal with the estate, take responsibility for his legacy... all I can think about is Emma."
My voice dropped to a whisper.
“And don’t even get me started on August. He’s my uncle but I never felt like it.
And worse, I look exactly like them. Same face.
Same eyes. Sometimes I catch myself in the mirror and I see him.
.. I wonder if I'm doing the same thing without realizing it.
If I'm making Emma feel like she's not enough.
Or if I'm repeating the same damage he did.”
“You’re not,” Mireya said. Her voice was thick. “You’re nothing like them. Nothing like him.”
"How can you possibly know that?"
"Because Emma loves you without any doubt or reservation. You know how I know that?" She stepped closer. "Because I watch her face light up every single time you come home. I watch her save her funny stories specifically for you. I watch her check the time to see when you'll be back."
Her voice broke.“That’s not what kids do with parental figures who make them feel unwanted.”
I couldn't speak around the lump in my throat.
“Your father blamed Emma for your mother’s death and you spent your entire childhood making sure Emma never felt blamed again. That’s not the same thing. That’s not even remotely close.”
She reached out and touched my arm gently.
“You became the parent your father refused to be. And Emma knows that. She’s always known that.”
My throat felt so constricted I could barely breathe.
“You’re allowed to be angry at him,” Mireya said softly. “You’re allowed to not want his money.” She squeezed my arm. “And you’re allowed to look like him without being like him. Because you're not. You never were.”
I looked down at her hand on my forearm, warmth spreading through me. It was… familiar, yet different.
Comforting in a way I'd never experienced.
“I’ve never told anyone that,” I admitted. “About Emma, the letters, or how he made her feel.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
We stood in the quiet hallway, city lights casting soft shadows through the windows. Her hand still rested on my arm. I covered it with mine, drawing strength from the contact.
"Thank you," I said. "For listening. For understanding."
"Anytime, Riven. I mean that."
She squeezed once more before letting go and stepping back toward her room.
I cleared my throat. “Goodnight, Mireya.”
“Goodnight, Riven.”
She closed her door softly.
I stood there for a long time, the weight of everything I'd just said still settling around me—the raw honesty I'd shared with the nurse I'd employed for my sister.
But somehow, it didn't feel wrong.
It felt like the first honest thing I'd done in months.