How to be loved

75 - The dinner

How to be loved

75 – The dinner

Becky sat across from him in that quiet, private section of the restaurant, the soft hum of distant music threading through the silence like a ghost of calm neither of them felt. The lighting was warm, dim, meant to soothe—but it only made the space feel more suffocating. Like a spotlight had been turned on the table they shared, illuminating every wound neither of them had dared to name.

Her hand was still cradled in Freen's—warm, steady, grounding. The only solid thing in a room full of fragile history.

Becky's father had just told them to sit—and they did. But now, with her legs crossed beneath the table and her jaw clenched tighter than she realized, she couldn't take her eyes off him. The man she used to believe could fix anything. The man she had once begged—silently, desperately—to save her.

She used to think he was unshakable. That he was strength personified.

Now, she saw someone older. Grayer at the temples. Still upright, still polished in that perfect charcoal suit and carefully knotted navy tie. Still the kind of man who commanded a room.

But his eyes...

They looked unsure.

He cleared his throat, that familiar flick of discomfort crossing his face as his gaze moved between Freen and Becky. "Let's... let's eat first, I guess," he said, voice softer than she remembered.

Becky didn't even look at the menu.

"It's fine," she said, the words sharp, cutting through the quiet. "Let's get to it. No need to dance around whatever this is."

Her voice was cool. Too cool. But Freen knew the truth behind it—she always did. She felt the heat beneath the ice, the fear and hurt and buried frustration that had fossilized over years of silence and empty rooms.

Without a word, Freen turned slightly toward her, gently lifting their joined hands and wrapping both of hers around Becky's. Her thumbs moved in slow circles over Becky's skin, quiet reassurances written in touch.

"Babe," she murmured, so softly only Becky could hear. Her voice was calm, steady. "I know it's hard. But let's try to see this through, okay? Just... see what this is."

Becky glanced at her, and the warmth in Freen's eyes made something inside her flicker. Not because the anger disappeared—no, it sat heavy and hot in her chest—but because Freen always managed to reach the part of her that still believed in softness. That still wanted peace.

She wasn't asking Becky to be small. She never did.

She was just reminding her to breathe. And that means everything for her.

Becky turned back to her father. He hadn't moved. Hadn't said a word. He was just watching—watching her, watching Freen—and something in his expression had changed.

It wasn't dramatic. It wasn't sudden. But there was something more fragile in the lines of his face. Something like realization. Like regret.

She didn't speak right away. But her shoulders eased—just barely. A small shift. One most people wouldn't notice.

But Freen noticed.

She always noticed.

Becky gave her hand a soft squeeze and lowered her gaze to the table, lashes casting shadows across her cheeks. There was something raw in her eyes. Not just anger anymore, but something quieter beneath it.

Maybe doubt.

Maybe grief.

Maybe the echo of a little girl still waiting for her father to speak up for her.