Fire Rose Hillson
Sitting at the restaurant, a sense of foreboding suddenly washed over me, impossible to ignore. The reality of my decision struck me like a tidal wave the moment I arrived. Why had I agreed to meet my father? Doubts gnawed at me, each sharper than the last. My fingers fidgeted restlessly as my mind conjured up countless scenarios, each worse than the one before.
What would he say? How would I react? What if I couldn't handle it? The questions circled like vultures, and with every passing second, my nerves frayed a little more, with each passing moment, my anxiety had reached a fever pitch. I stood up from the table, my resolve crumbling. I had to leave. I couldn't do this.
Just as I reached for the door, it swung open. Standing there was a tall man in his late 50s. His hair black hair had streaked of silver strands, and his face was lined with the years that had passed since I last saw him. But his eyes—those deep, familiar eyes—were the same. I knew instantly that it was him. Callum MacGregor, my father. The man who had walked out of my life when I was just five years old.
Tears welled up in my eyes, unbidden and unstoppable. I tried to blink them away, to keep some semblance of control, but it was no use. Memories flooded back—him carrying me around when I was three, his laughter, the way he'd swing me in his arms. All the good times before everything fell apart. I wish that memory didn't stuck in my core now I even resent him more.
"Fire..." His voice was soft, almost reverent. He looked as if he didn't know what to do with his hands, his own eyes betraying a mixture of hope and fear.
"Don't call me that," I whispered harshly, wiping at my tears with trembling hands. "It's Rose. Just Rose."
He nodded, a shadow of sadness crossing his face. We sat down, the silence between us heavy with years of unspoken words. He cleared his throat, trying to lighten the mood with a typical father-daughter catch-up. "You've grown so much. You look just like your mom."
"Don't." The word came out sharper than I intended. "Don't talk about her."
He flinched, but I could see he was determined to push through. "I didn't mean to hurt you, Rose. It wasn't just my decision to leave. Your mother and I... we both decided it was best to go our separate ways. I hurt her, and I also needed time for myself."
"Time for yourself? It took you 19 years?" The anger bubbled up, raw and fierce. "Is that why you didn't help Mom raise me? Because you needed time for yourself?"
He paused, the weight of my words hanging in the air. "I was selfish. I know that now. And I'm so sorry, Rose. I can't change the past, but I hope you can give me a chance to be part of your life again."
"I don't know if I can." My voice was choked with emotion. "Even if I wanted to, it would hurt Mom. I don't want to open old wounds."
"I understand," he said softly. "But I won't give up. I want to earn your trust again."
For a brief moment, hope flickered in my heart. Maybe he meant it this time. Maybe he really wanted to make things right. I stood up, ready to leave, but I turned to face him one last time.
"You know, love is a choice. And you chose yourself than to be with us means you didn't love us enough." My voice was steadier now, the anger giving me strength. "And please, don't ever call me Fire again."
With that, I walked out, leaving him behind. As I stepped into the sunlight, I took a deep breath. I hoped he would keep his promise, but only time would tell. And until then, I want to focus on building the will to face my father again without exploding in anger or in tears, because if I couldn't handle this, then who would?
