Daughter of Luka (LGBT+)

Three 🌑

When I returned home, I really didn't want to have to show my father my test score, but I knew that he would be curious as to how my first day had gone and in some funny sense, it was a good souvenir. Never mind. He would be undoubtedly peeved with me. I was simply going to have to face my fears. My fight or flight response was kicking in and I chose to fight. My mother hadn't raised a quitter, and my father hadn't raised a liar. 

He pulled into the driveway and I swallowed hard. Here we go. 

"Hey, so uh..." I trailed off, as I tried to force a confident smile upon my face. Best he didn't suspect a thing to start off with, right? 

"How'd your first day go?" he asked me. There was so much light in his eyes, I really didn't want to be the one to diminish it. 

"I made a friend!" I said cheerfully. 

He smiled. 

"And I failed maths," I added quickly, hoping he might not catch onto it in his happiness. 

He did. His face dropped, as did my spirit. 

"Hey, it's okay, kid. You can work hard. You'll get there eventually, I am sure of it," he said. Quinn Amarilla- arguably the kindest man alive. 

Well, he did hunt animals for a living, but other than that he was fine. More than fine. I was lucky to have him. I was also lucky that he didn't kick off at me for failing. I wasn't quite sure how I would have been talked to had it been my mother who had discovered my terrible grade. She veered towards being a tiger parent on occasion. At least, she used to. 

"Let's get inside," dad said. 

I nodded in agreement and the two of us exited the car and made our way into the house just before the sky could begin to chuck it down with rain. 

I sighed, as my eyes wandered to look out of the window for a few moments. England. Land of grey skies. That might have been a more fitting name for it. 

"Are you sure you're not mad at me for failing?" I asked my dad. 

The two of us walked into the kitchen. I got started on preparing us some coffee. I needed it. The caffeine withdrawal was really creeping up on me. 

"I don't want to fight with you, Ophelia. Not ever, really," he said. 

Great. About time for one of his deep chats, then. 

"Ever since your mother died, I haven't wanted to lose anyone else that I love. I don't want to argue with you and drive you away. Besides, getting mad won't solve anything. I'll try to help you with your maths," he said. 

"Then you really will get mad at me," I replied quietly. "Before we make a start on helping me not completely fail maths, can I go for a walk?" I asked. I eyed the woods behind my house momentarily. I was far too obvious. 

My father cleared his throat. 

I prepared myself for a lecture, surprised when I didn't receive one. 

"Okay," he said, "But I do worry about your urge to search those woods, Ophelia. I don't trust them." 

He didn't say anything more, though I eyed him with particular interest. He looked as though he had more to say. Was he hiding something from me? 

No. Perhaps I was only being paranoid. 

"I just don't want you to leave me in the way that she did," he said. 

"I won't end up in a coma if I trip over a tree branch, dad," I remind him. 

There was amusement in my voice, but my father's expression remained serious. 

"Relax, dad. I am never leaving you," I promised him. 

It's mostly the truth. One day I'll want to leave the 'nest', as it were, but for now I enjoyed living with my dad. I didn't want to give that up. 

"I'll be just fine," I said, with an optimistic smile. "And maths will be just fine, too," I added, as I zipped up my coat. "I made a new friend, like I said before. I think she's going to help me." 

She better. I promised her payment in pinecones, after all! 

My dad's expression relaxed a little after that comment. 

"Good. That's good," he said, before he takes a too-hot sip of coffee and winces at it. "You'll be back home soon, right?" he asked me, as I wandered towards the front door. 

"For sure," I promised, "I want to finish off my current painting." 

My dad smiled. 

My true passion was for painting, and he knew that well enough. 

While my mother hadn't truly understood said passion, my father had always encouraged me to expand and develop upon my talents. It meant the world to me. 

Over time, my mother had complimented my talents, too. She bought me an easel a few months before her solemn passing. It was my most prized possession, but I would have given it away if it meant I could have more time with my mother. 

"Ah," my father said, as his eyes settled on my most recent work. "You're painting the woods?" he asked. 

"It's called a still-life painting, or a realistic painting," I said simply. "There's no bears in the woods, are there?" I added, merely out of curiosity. What had my dad so concerned about my exploration of them, anyway? Surely, there was something.  

"Unless you're Goldilocks," my dad managed to joke. I wasn't sure that he had it in him. His expression of concern hadn't faded for a whole fifteen minutes. He was steadily entering the frown lines zone. 

"I'll write some more later, too. I'm feeling inspired," I said. 

My father smirked. 

"I helped with that," he said confidently. 

He really hadn't, but I didn't have the heart to tell him that. 

"Sure you did," I said, as I gently pat a hand upon his shoulder, before walking out the front door.