after they met her

fourty

i v a n a

I sat in my room, the faint scent of my shampoo lingering in the air after my shower. I had already eaten the sandwich Matthew made and brought to me, grateful that I didn't have to leave my room.

Despite the comfort of being alone, something felt off. I tried to understand my father's actions, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't.

A knock on the door broke my thoughts.

"Come in," I called out, confused who it would be.

My father stepped in. "Ivana, can we talk?" he asked, his voice unusually soft.

I studied him for a moment, wondering if saying no was even an option. He looked tired, but there was a determination in his eyes that I couldn't ignore.

He pulled out the chair at my desk, glancing around my desk. "You have a very neat handwriting," he commented, noticing the open notebook on the table.

"Thank you," I replied dryly, not really in the mood for small talk.

He looked at me, trying to meet my gaze. "How is school?" he asked, though we both knew that wasn't the real reason he was here.

"Fine," I answered, keeping my voice steady. "I'm trying my best."

He nodded, more to himself than to me. "I know you are. I know that," he repeated, as if convincing himself.

Silence filled the room, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on us.

"Gray sends me reports on your progress," he said, breaking the silence. "I know you have good grades, and the teachers are all satisfied with you." He nodded again, lost in his own thoughts.

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying to keep my emotions in check. "So?" I prompted, tired of the drawn-out conversation.

"So," he echoed, as if testing the word. "I think..." He hesitated, looking down at his hands before meeting my eyes again. "Matthew thinks we should talk."

I raised an eyebrow, more out of annoyance than curiosity. "Okay, talk."

I could feel the tension building in the room, the kind that always accompanied his conversations. His ideas, his attempts to connect, always seemed to lead to more problems. I couldn't help but feel a wave of nervousness creeping in.

He sighed deeply, a sound that seemed to carry the weight of years of regret. "I want to start by saying I'm sorry," he began, the words coming out stiff and awkward. "I know I haven't treated you the way I should have. I assumed things about you, about your life, without ever properly asking for your opinions or feelings."

I watched him carefully, hearing the sincerity in his voice but unsure if I could trust it. His apology felt backhanded at first, like he was simply going through the motions. But then, he looked me in the eye, and I saw something different—something real.

"I'm sorry for being a bad father," he said, his voice faltering slightly. "I really want to be better."

The room fell into silence again, but this time it wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy with the unspoken pain that lingered between us, but also with the possibility of something new.

I took a deep breath, unsure of how to respond. The truth was, his words had stirred something in me, but I wasn't ready to forgive him. Not yet.

"If I'm being honest," I started slowly, choosing my words carefully, "I don't really see you as my father."

His face crumpled at my words, the impact of them hitting him like a punch to the gut. The regret, the pain, the sorrow—it all played out in his expression.