Chapter 53 – Kat
FIFTY-THREE
KAT
As I stand on the porch of my father’s imposing home, my eyes sweep over the grandeur and opulence before me. Pristine white pillars tower above us, framing the massive front door that looks like it could belong to a palace. The gardens are meticulously landscaped, even in the dead of winter, with perfectly trimmed bushes and vibrant flowers peeking out from under a layer of frost. Parked in the driveway is a sleek, expensive sports car, making me painfully aware of my father’s wealth.
I clench my fists until my knuckles turn white, fighting the urge to grab the expensive vase by the door and smash it against the wall. The anger bubbling up in me tastes like bile in my throat, as if I could vomit up all of my resentment. That vase is probably worth more than my entire tuition for this semester.
My anxiety threatens to pull me into a downward spiral, but Tanner’s large, calming hand presses gently against the small of my back. The warmth and weight of it anchors me .
“So, you didn’t grow up here?” I ask Patrick, who stands at my other side, seemingly just as anxious as I am.
His voice drips with bitterness and resentment as he replies, “No, he got rid of the house last year. Said it reminded him too much of my mom, so he downsized.”
I sense a heaviness in his tone and choose not to probe further—I’ve got enough baggage when it comes to our father; carrying any of Patrick’s would pull me under.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” And I mean it. While I might resent her for what she did to my mom, I know Patrick loved his mom more than anything. Losing the home that she raised him in because his dad just didn’t want to look at it anymore is a kind of cruelty that no child should have to endure.
“Thanks.” Patrick’s hand trembles as he punches the code into the keypad, his fingers leaving smudges on the shiny buttons. Once the door is unlocked, he pushes it slowly, the creak of the hinge reverberating through the crisp, stale air.
None of us actually want to be here, but here we are nonetheless—whether out of obligation or fear is hard to tell.
The excessively opulent house is so quiet it’s eerie. It’s like being in a museum, surrounded by gaudy wealth and excessive decor. But there’s no sign of life here, no laughter or bustling servants. It’s almost unsettling how empty this place feels. Maybe this is what it means to be rich—living in a huge, empty house that’s more a status symbol than a home. Or maybe it’s all just for show, like something you’d see in a movie. Either way, I can’t shake the creepy feeling washing over me.
The floorboards creak under our weight. It’s as if the house is holding its breath, waiting for us to break the bitter silence .
As we cautiously tread deeper into the silent house, a faint chatter fills the air—the sound of a television tuned to the news, emanating from the bedroom at the end of the hallway. The contrast between this solitary source of noise and the rest of the desolate house only adds to the unsettling atmosphere.
A sudden, harsh cough echoes out into the hallway, breaking the tension and catching Patrick’s attention. He clears his throat before rapping his knuckles against the partially open door, Tanner and I hanging back in the hall.
Tanner’s hand is warm and comforting, resting gently on the small of my back, the only grounding force preventing me from bolting out of this house rather than going into that bedroom.
I thought I was okay with this—I really thought that, with everything that’s happened, maybe I was stronger than I thought when it came to my father. But as his voice carries through the air, giving Patrick a cold “Hello” before demanding he grab him more tea from the kitchen, I find myself frozen.
Through the crack in the door, I watch Patrick grab the mug from our father. “There’s someone here to see you,” he says, his voice shaking.
Typically, knowing someone has come to visit you when you’re gravely ill would be a source of comfort, but I’ve started to realize that my dad may be incapable of that, because that would require a soul.
Our father’s expression turns cold and I can feel my stomach drop. “Who?” The bite in the single word causes me to tense.
Tanner pulls me to him, either to provide me comfort or by sheer instinct—I welcome it either way .
With a pause, Patrick forces my name out of his mouth. “It’s Kat.”
Silence falls and I find myself questioning if he even heard him, but that would be a much more welcome turn of events than the words that come tumbling out of his mouth.
Cutting through the silence, our father speaks, and his words are like a punch in the gut. “Why would that pitiful girl be here?” His tone is harsh, his eyes filled with disgust as they land on me through the gap in the door.
My heart sinks, and I feel hot tears threaten to escape my eyes.
He turns toward Patrick. “I’m not taking visitors today.”
Tanner clenches his jaw and mutters a faint curse under his breath. Without warning, he storms past me and barges into my father’s bedroom. He plants himself in front of the TV, blocking my father’s view of the news. I can see the tension radiating off Tanner as he faces my father’s cold expression, their eyes locking in a silent battle.
Tanner’s face twists with anger, his knuckles turning white as he fists his hands tightly at his sides. “Seriously? What the hell is wrong with you?” He inches closer to my father, jutting out a finger in his direction. “Your daughter—who frankly is way better than me for even being willing to see you—comes to visit your sorry ass and that’s what you fucking say?” His words are sharp and filled with venom as they fly from his mouth.
My chest heaves with each rapid beat of my heart, the sound filling my ears and drowning out all other noise. I stand rooted to the spot, unable to move as adrenaline courses through me.
My father’s lips curl into a cold, threatening snarl as he narrows his eyes at my boyfriend. He leans in close, speaking with no regard for my presence. “I never had a daughter,” he spits, the malice in his tone sending chills down my spine.
When Tanner turns to my brother, who is standing off to the side looking utterly terrified with the mug cradled between his hands for support, his tone shifts from anger to mocking amusement. “Oh, has his memory gone to shit because he’s sick?” He turns back to the man who gave me life and says, “Or is he just a fucking degenerate piece of garbage who can’t follow through on his commitments?”
My father’s face transforms into a mask of fury, his knuckles turning white as he grips the armrests of his chair. He stands up and takes a few unsteady steps toward Tanner, his words slurring from both anger and, I realize, alcohol. “How dare you come in here and lecture me on commitments!” he roars, spittle flying from his mouth.
I rush into the bedroom, my hands shaking with fear and anger. I try to find my voice as I say, “Stop.” My eyes dart between the man in front of me and the family photos on the wall behind him—himself, Patrick, and the woman I assume to be Patrick’s mother posed against a stark backdrop. He may look like me, his eyes a mirror image of my own, but there is no love or familiarity in them. They belong to a stranger, not my dad.
My heart races as our eyes lock. His expression flashes with a whirlwind of emotions, like a movie reel playing on fast-forward. I see shock, anger, and sadness flit across his face, but there’s no hint of regret in his piercing gaze. His jaw tightens and his brow furrows as if trying to make sense of my sudden appearance. “Katarina,” he hisses.
“Actually, it’s just Kat ,” I grit out through clenched teeth. Katarina was his mother’s name—or at least that’s what my mom told me—and I’ve spent more of my life than I care to admit trying and failing to make it my own.
His face twists in disgust, his lips curling and eyebrows furrowing. “Ungrateful bitch, just like your mother.”
Without even lifting my gaze, I instinctively thrust my arm out to block Tanner’s path as he lunges toward my father. He looks at me with concern and love in his eyes, but I know this is something I have to face alone.
My heart pounds in my chest as I steel myself for the conversation that needs to be had.
“What exactly should I be grateful for? You’ve never done anything.”
“I’ve fulfilled my obligations; I never missed a single child support check.”
That is what he considers to be fulfilling his obligations?
As I glare at the man who left me and my mother behind, I can’t help but feel a surge of anger. My mother warned me about him in her own way—telling me that we needed to make it on our own without any of his support—but now, as I face down my pathetic excuse for a father, I know what it really was: fear. She never wanted me to hate him; she only wanted to shield me from his wrath, and now I see why. He may share my last name, but there’s no denying that we are two completely different people. The thought of our shared blood sickens me.
“I’d hardly call sending a check for half the value of our electric bill every month fulfilling your obligations,” I snarl, blatant disgust coating my words.
His voice drips with arrogance as he says, “You may not know much about me, but Patrick here can attest that I never make a bad investment. So why would I send more money when, to be frank, you simply weren’t worth it?”
I’ve spent a large portion of my life believing just that—believing everything he presumably thought about me was right and that I just had to try harder to make my father love me. Send more letters, get better grades, accomplish more…then maybe, just maybe he’d see my value.
Now I realize that his approval, his love, has never mattered. All this time, I’ve been chasing after someone who doesn’t deserve my love or attention, and with that realization I finally feel free.
He continues without delay, his snarling voice causing my skin to crawl. “But back then, when you got someone pregnant, you were expected to marry them, so I did. I never loved your mother, but I did the honorable thing anyway and I married her. We’d been casually seeing one another and the bitch trapped me.”
It takes everything in me not to retort and say that it takes two to conceive a child and that he was just as responsible as she was, but I refrain, wanting to hear the rest of his tangled web.
“Patrick’s mother and I were on a break at the time, but your mother managed to get her jagged little nails in me. I refused to allow her selfishness to stop me from having a family.”
“You had a family.” My voice comes out colder than I’ve ever heard it.
“You and your mother were never my family. You were an unfortunate result of a horrible mistake. Luckily, Christina forgave me.”
Suddenly, so much about him makes sense. Every ignored letter, every changed phone number, every effort gone unanswered—it all makes sense now.
Patrick Marritt Sr. is a horrible person.
As I stare up at him, my throat tightens and my stomach churns with anger, but I take a deep breath and force myself to speak. “Okay,” I say, my voice trembling with a mixture of sadness and anger.
His ice-blue eyes are as cold as ever, reminding me this is the right choice.
I don’t bother to tell him goodbye; I don’t force myself to maintain composure long enough to wish him well. I couldn’t care less if not caring that he’s battling cancer makes me a horrible person.
So, with the last shred of dignity I have left, I hold my head high and walk out.
I’m proud to say that, for the first time in my life, I don’t look back.