60. Simone
Simone
For the first few weeks back home, I just kept waiting for the pain to let up, like it was a bruise, like if I just stopped touching it, it would heal.
Now that we’re almost two months into summer break, I’m realizing it doesn’t work like that. Pain doesn’t stop because you ignore it long enough; it heals when you look it head-on and address it, stop pretending you’re fine, and work on it.
And I’m definitely not fine.
Sitting on the screened-in back porch at my parents’ house with my knees tucked up to my chest, I watch as the sun melts into the trees behind our fence, enjoying the therapy nature always is.
The cicadas are loud, and the air is thick tonight.
Southern heat is different. It feels like it wraps around your entire body.
My mom’s windchimes clink softly in the breeze, creating a little song as they dance. I’ve always loved them. They’re annoying when you’re trying to sleep on the hammock near the side of the house, but when you’re sad? They sound like the perfect comfort.
My phone is face down beside me on the porch swing. It’s been face down a lot lately. Because if I look at it too long, I start thinking I’ll see his name pop up. I’ll get my hopes up. I’ll let my foolish heart believe he misses me.
When no one is around, and it’s quiet, all my brain can think about and focus on is him. All that I think about is the last time I heard his voice and the last time he kissed me. I play on a loop in my head how I told him I needed space, when that was the last thing I wanted from him.
I wanted him to fight…for me…for us.
I thought space would make this easier, but it hasn’t. It’s just shown me how much I really felt for him, how toxically I was addicted to him, how stupidly in love I was.
All I do lately is pray—something I’ve never done. It’s the only thing that makes me feel like I have some control here. Like if I can’t fix things myself, maybe telling the man upstairs to is the next closest thing to being in control I can feel.
I just want him to be okay. I want to know he’s safe. I want to know he has someone watching out for him. I want to know he hasn’t gone too far and can’t come back. I want to know he’s not drowning in his own mind.
I don’t really know what I want. I just…I want him. I know that much. Even when the logical side of my brain knows I can’t have him, not right now at least. My heart doesn’t listen. She only knows him. She only wants him.
The screen door opens behind me. I know it’s my dad, and I don’t turn right away. I know it’s him because his footsteps are heavier than my mom’s, sometimes slower too, like he’s always cautiously approaching everyone.
He clears his throat, then he just stands there for a second.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I answer, my voice quiet as I stare out at the yard.
He steps out and sits on the arm of one of the woven chairs, staring out at the yard with me like we’re watching something important.
We’re not. It’s just a small yard full of grass and a couple of trees in the dark. But we act like it’s fascinating so we don’t have to look at each other.
“You hungry?” he asks.
“No.”
He nods like he expected that. “Your mom made pasta.”
“I’ll eat later.”
He nods again, and then there’s more silence.
I can feel him trying, like he’s searching for the right doorway into my head, but he’s never had the right map, so he doesn’t really know what he’s doing or what path to take to get in there.
That’s basically the explanation of our relationship. My dad and I have always loved each other in a way that was…distant. Polite but foreign. Like we’re related, but we’re not sure how to be close.
He’s the kind of dad who shows love through providing. Bills were always paid on time, never worried about food, had cars to drive, and a roof over our head. But hugs? Real conversations? Emotions? Those have always felt like another language when it comes to him.
He shifts beside me on the arm.
“You’ve been quiet,” he says.
“I’m always quiet.”
He looks down at me, giving me a ‘I know you better than that’ look. But does he?
“I only have one daughter,” he says with a smile. “And she hasn’t been quiet a day in her life since she entered this world.”
My throat tightens, and I just stare straight ahead so I don’t have to watch his face or see the concern that feels so foreign on it.
College gave me freedom, and it gave me space.
And in that space, I started seeing things more clearly.
Seeing him. Seeing how the distance wasn’t just a personality trait.
It was more of a pattern. And it shaped me.
It shaped what I thought love was. What I thought I deserved. Or what I thought was normal.
“What’s going on, Simone?” he asks.
The question is gentle, which makes it harder to want to stay closed off.
I love my dad. I just…don’t really know him.
I swallow. “I don’t know.”
He softens up, and I can tell he really wants to know. “Yes, you do.”
I don’t know if I like the way he’s probing. I’m not used to it. It doesn’t feel…normal.
He places a hand on my shoulder that makes me feel choked up just from the stupid little gesture.
“You know,” he continues, filling the awkward silence.
“You being away at college has…really made me see how fast time goes by. You’re my only child, my baby girl.
I know I haven’t always been the best at showing you…
affection; your mom is always telling me that I need to push more with you and have conversations I don’t really know how to have. ”
I look up at him, my heart feeling heavy and confused.
“I just always felt like I knew I was around, and that was enough, and if you needed me, you’d come to me,” he says with a wobbly smile. “But I’m starting to understand that’s my job. To check on you. To know how you’re doing. To make you comfortable enough to come to me when you need to.”
My throat feels so tight that I can’t reply. If I do, I’ll cry. I’m just as bad as him, not knowing how to express how I feel here.
But I know I have to get it out. I might not ever get another chance to if I shut this down now. So I swallow back the emotions.
“I grew up feeling…really distant from you,” I say quietly.
He looks pained by that, and I don’t want to make him feel bad.
“I know you were here,” I rush to add, because I’m scared of hurting his feelings. “I know you provided. I know you worked really hard for us. I know you did what you thought was right. I’m not saying you weren’t a good dad or anything.”
He doesn’t interrupt, just lets me get it out.
“But…I never felt like I really knew you,” I whisper. “I didn’t feel like you knew me either. And I think it affected me more than I realized until recently.”
He looks back out at the yard, jaw tight like he’s trying to hold in his own emotions. Something I’ve never witnessed.
“It affected how I…let men treat me,” I tell him. “It affected what I look for. Or what I don’t look for. It affected what I accept.”
“Because I wasn’t affectionate enough?” he asks quietly.
I swallow, searching for a better explanation. “Because I didn’t feel chosen or….wanted without having to ask for it.”
My dad’s shoulders sink a little.
“I love you,” he says immediately. Too quickly. Like, he needs to make sure I know that.
“I know,” I whisper. “But I didn’t feel it.” My voice breaks a little. “Not the way I needed.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t speak. And I’m afraid I’ve just shattered this fake illusion we’ve lived with for years.
Then he exhales. “I’m sorry, Simone.”
I blink, and continue to blink, tapping the side of my chair, and biting the inside of my cheek, willing back the emotions.
He turns toward me fully now, eyes glassy.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I…I let my mental health control most of my life.”
I don’t know what to do with that sentence. My dad doesn’t talk like this. He never has.
He swallows hard and looks away so he can continue. “Emotions have always been hard for me to show. It’s not because I didn’t feel them. It’s because I didn’t know how to…let them out. It makes me so uncomfortable sometimes.”
My chest tightens. Sad for him, sad for myself. Sad for the little girl who didn’t get to feel loved by her dad, and sad for the man who didn’t know how to show little me that he did actually love her.
“And somewhere along the way, especially once you came along,” he continues, “I convinced myself that if I provided, if I kept everything stable, if I stayed consistent…that would be enough. That would be just as good. That would make up for what I couldn’t do.
” He looks at me. “But…you needed more.”
I nod, tears sliding down my cheeks before I can stop them.
“I did,” I whisper.
His face falls just slightly, then he clears his throat and forces a small smile as he places his hand on my head, stroking the top of my hair.
“I am proud of you, Simone,” he says. “So proud. You have no idea.”
I laugh through the tears. “Yeah?”
I think this is the first time I’ve ever heard those words from him. They make me feel both uncomfortable and happy at the same time.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “You’re smart, Simone. You’re kind. You’re beautiful. You’re…you’re becoming this incredible woman. I watch you, and I feel like—” His voice breaks, and he clears his throat again, trying to recover, like he’s embarrassed for being human in this moment. “I feel lucky.”
My tears come harder.
He shakes his head and then lets out a little self-deprecating laugh. “It’s all thanks to your mom, though. I can’t take any of the credit.”
I laugh and cry at the same time. Because, of course, he has to ruin the moment with joking. But the joke doesn’t actually ruin it. It saves it. It makes it real.
I stand up and step into him, wrapping my arms around his waist like I’m a little girl again. For a second, his arms don’t move. Then they wrap around me tight. Tight enough to make my heart ache in a way that feels full and not hurt anymore.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into my hair.
I shake my head. “Just…keep doing…this,” I whisper back.
“I will,” he says. “I promise.”