Chapter 4 - The Aftermath at Home
When I finally clocked out at 4:00 p.m. and drove back to the house on Oak Tree Lane, the driveway was crowded. Dad’s truck was parked in its usual spot, but Diana’s SUV was also there, along with a visitor's car I didn't recognize—a sleek, dark sedan belonging to Diana’s sister, Aunt Nora.
I took a deep breath, grabbed my backpack, and pushed open the front door.
The house smelled like roasted garlic and lemon—Diana must have decided to cook a massive, elaborate dinner to make up for the weekend. Laughter drifted from the living room. Lucas was squealing with delight as someone chased him across the rug, and Nora was talking loudly about a new landscaping project in her front yard.
I tried to slip past the hallway toward the stairs, hoping to make it to my bedroom unbothered, but Dad stepped out of the kitchen, holding a glass of iced tea.
"Bella," he called out, stopping me in my tracks.
I turned around, keeping my face carefully blank. "Hi."
He looked rested. The slight shadow of stress that usually lingered around his eyes seemed to have vanished after a night of good food, wine, and uninterrupted sleep at Marina House. He smiled—that easy, relaxed smile he used to give me all the time before the twins were born and life became a relentless logistical marathon.
"Hey, kiddo. Working late today?"
"Normal shift," I replied shortly.
Dad took a sip of his tea, rocking back slightly on his heels. "Look, about last night... I know you were upset. And I'm sorry we had to rush out like that. But Diana and I really needed that break. You have to understand, parenting toddlers twenty-four-seven—"
"You went to a waterfront restaurant," I interrupted, my voice dropping dangerously low. "You had a date."
His smile faltered just a fraction. "We had a nice dinner, yes. And everything was fine here, right? The twins were asleep by eight. You handled it like a pro."
I stared at him. Really stared at him. I looked at the man who, eight years ago, had promised me that no matter how much things changed, I would never have to wonder whether he'd show up for me.
"You didn't just rush out, Dad," I said, my voice shaking with a controlled fury. "You lied. You told me we had a date. You put it on your calendar. I planned a whole evening, and you threw it away like it was nothing."
Dad's expression hardened, the easygoing mood evaporating. He looked around to make sure Diana wasn't walking down the hallway, then lowered his voice.
"Isabella, we are not doing this again. I apologized for the scheduling conflict. You're seventeen years old. Most teenagers would be thrilled to have a free evening to hang out with friends instead of sitting around waiting for their dad to take them to dinner. Why are you making such a big deal out of a missed meal?"
A missed meal.
That was all it was to him. A scheduling conflict. A meal.
"It wasn't a meal," I whispered, my chest tightening so hard I could barely pull air into my lungs. "It was my birthday. The only thing I asked for."
"And you got a roof over your head, clothes on your back, and a family that loves you," Dad snapped back, his temper finally flaring. "Stop acting like a spoiled child. I work forty hours a week, I help run this household, and I am exhausted. I expected a little more maturity from you."
He turned and walked back into the kitchen, leaving me standing alone in the hallway.
I didn't cry this time. Tears felt entirely too soft for the hard, jagged block of ice forming in my chest. I walked up the stairs, locked my bedroom door, and sat down at my desk.
I looked at my school calendar taped to the corkboard. November 13 was circled in red pen, with a little heart drawn next to it.
I reached out, grabbed a black Sharpie, and drew a thick, black X right across the date.
Then I opened my laptop and pulled up the spreadsheet where I tracked my earnings from the bakery. I looked at the numbers: college savings, textbook funds, car insurance contributions. I had been saving diligently, contributing to my own future because I knew that sooner or later, I would have to stand entirely on my own two feet.
That night, lying in bed, I made a silent vow.
May you like
I wasn't going to fight with him anymore. I wasn't going to beg for his attention, remind him of his promises, or wait for him to show up. If he wanted to build a life with Diana and the twins, he could have it.
I was officially checking out.
