Because favours are priced...
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"You have an insatiable desire for trouble Camille Sanders. You'll never just be satisfied. You're like me, too wild for the world."
I laugh at the outrageousness. "You're dramatic I'll give you that Michae...
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His distractions worked so well, I forgot about my father, my mother, our past, and even the letter I wrote for him. It was the next day, when I'd remembered, seeing his office door ajar opposite the library where I sat. I ventured in, wondering if I'd find signed documents stating he's sold his hard work for a cheap price.
For some reason, I take a glance at the bin. Just as my gut had warned, there inside, the red envelope sat crushed. I pull it out slowly, smoothening the creases before I take out the letter. Despite the rough look, I could make out the words I'd scribbled in my terrible handwriting.
Dear dad,
Happy birthday.
You seem to have everything to want. A better wife, not one but two great daughters, a great mansion of a home, a successful business- Oh no wait, you're selling that to your wife because she's not rich enough already. It's sad to see the business you actually worked hard to keep and fought over with mom over, be sold so easily. I suppose it shouldn't surprise me, seeing as you were able to abandon your flesh and blood without as much as a proper reason either. It was all too easy even to cheat on the woman who stood by you, supporting you through all that hardship. A company should mean nothing then.
Back to the point, I didn't get you a gift. There is next to nothing you couldn't get yourself now. Except for my respect, and love. So maybe I can give you the gift of guilt and shame. Won't be surprised to know you've tossed this over your shoulder. Careful though, I've heard it's a heavy burden.
Shamefully,
Your daughter.
Maybe it wasn't the greatest gift. But I...why do I keep hoping? Like Gatsby with his fucking optimism and hope, I keeping thinking something will change. That I'll get my father back. Is this how it's always going to be?
Me lying, saying I'm fine now. But every day I wish for it all to go back, I wish for my father to return. Every day I am disappointed.
It was a stupid idea anyway. I head to the kitchen, grabbing a matchbox. I light the stick and hold it to the envelope. I watched the fire consume the paper and burn way the stupid words forever. It didn't matter anymore.
Saturday comes, and Viv drags me out to shop, saying she has news. Turns out it was news her mother couldn't deliver herself.
"Our summer fashion show is in Paris. Maman asked that you walk the runway." It wasn't an invite, it was more of a command. I refrained from rolling my eyes. "Maman thought it would be good for your publicity."
"Huh, publicity. Never thought I'd have to worry about that."
I thought of the ordeal from last month, the public shame, the public defence of the girls supporting me. As much as that pleased me, I didn't like thinking about it. It was like a scab. Every time I thought of it, I scratched it, and wound opened once more, bringing back the pain of betrayal.
