Chapter 2 - Echoes in an Empty Kitchen
The hum of the refrigerator felt deafening after the front door clicked shut. Lucas dropped a spoonful of mashed carrots onto his tray, and Lily babbled something unintelligible, waving her spoon like a tiny baton. I mechanically wiped their faces, warmed up their milk, and readied their bedtime stories, moving through the routine with a hollow numbness in my chest.
By 8:00 p.m., both twins were finally asleep in their cribs, their soft breathing the only sound in the quiet house. I walked back down the stairs, kicking off my heels in the hallway. My blue dress felt tight, suffocating even, a costume for an event that had turned into a sick joke. I changed into an oversized grey hoodie and sweatpants, pulling my hair out of the neat curls Paige had spent an hour styling.
My phone buzzed against the kitchen island. It was Paige.
How was dinner? Did he love the watch? Text me back details!!
I stared at the screen, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. How do you tell your best friend that your father traded you for a plate of expensive appetizers with his wife? How do you explain that the man who taught you how to ride a bike and promised he’d always show up had essentially looked you in the eye and told you your existence was inconvenient?
Something came up, I finally typed back. We didn't go. I stayed home with the twins.
Her response was instantaneous, a bubble of three angry exclamation points followed by: Are you kidding me?? It's your SEVENTEENTH birthday! Bella, call him right now.
He's out with Diana. At Marina House.
The silence from Paige’s end lasted a long time. Then: I am coming over.
No, Paige, it's fine. Really. Just go to sleep.
I am bringing milkshakes and trashy movies. Give me twenty minutes.
True to her word, twenty minutes later, the front door unlocked, and Paige slipped inside, holding a plastic tray with two thick chocolate shakes from the diner down the street. She took one look at my red-rimmed eyes, dropped the tray on the kitchen counter, and pulled me into a fierce, suffocating hug.
"He's an idiot," she whispered fiercely into my hair. "A total, absolute idiot."
We sat on the living room floor, leaning against the sofa, eating fries dipped in chocolate shakes while a stupid romantic comedy played on the television. We didn't talk much about my dad. We didn't have to. Paige had been there the day we buried my mom; she had held my hand when I cried in the school bathroom on my tenth birthday. She knew the exact shape of the hole my mother’s death had left behind, and she knew how desperately I had tried to fill it with the steady, reliable presence of my father.
"You have every right to be furious," Paige said quietly during a commercial break. "You saved up for that watch. You planned everything. You didn't ask for a trip to Europe or a car. You just wanted an hour of his time."
"He told me birthdays are for little kids," I murmured, staring at the television screen without really seeing it. "He said I was seventeen, not seven."
"Yeah, well, seventeen is when you realize your parents aren't invincible, and sometimes they suck," Paige said bluntly.
When Paige left around 11:00 p.m., the house descended back into that heavy, oppressive silence. I checked on the twins one last time, pulling the light blankets over their small chests, before heading to my own room.
Across town, at Marina House, my father and Diana were probably sitting at a candlelit table overlooking the water. They were probably laughing, clinking wine glasses, enjoying a peaceful evening free from diapers, toddler tantrums, and teenage daughters who wanted too much attention.
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I set my alarm for 6:00 a.m. Saturday morning. I had a morning shift at the bakery, and I intended to be up, dressed, and out of the house before anyone woke up. I didn't want to see my father. I didn't want to hear his morning-after excuses, his casual, breezy "Morning, kiddo, sorry about last night" that would make it seem like I was the unreasonable one for expecting him to keep his word.
I closed my eyes, but sleep didn't come easily. Every time I drifted off, I imagined the empty table at The Harbor Table. I imagined Carlos, the manager, walking over to my reserved table with the little wrapped box and the letter, realizing nobody was ever going to show up.
