The Lost Daughter

CHAPTER TWO.

I freeze. I can't think. All I can do is stand there, staring at eyes that look just like mine. I can hear the blood rushing in my ears and it's so loud I wonder if he can hear it from where he's stood.

Stood outside the dingy motel room I work my ass off to afford so I can keep a roof over my head while he stands there wearing thousands of dollars on his body like it's nothing.

God.

A few pounding beats of my heart later, mind reeling with thousands of thoughts and questions all fighting for the chance to be said but in the end I can only force one word out.

"Why?" I ask simply. Though I'm not even sure what I'm really asking. Maybe why are you here? or why now? or perhaps why did you leave me?

I take in his face, looking at him I can't deny how sincere he looks. He looks haunted, like he's seeing a ghost when he looks at me and he seems just as torn as I do. Like he has a million things to say but doesn't know what to voice first.

"I've been looking for you." Is what he tells me in a rush of breath, hands fidgeting; clenching and unclenching tightly, like he's trying to hold himself back. And I don't want that.

In that moment it's just. Everything I've ever wanted to hear from him. The unknown, faceless man I would dream of calling "dad". Those times I was hungry, and cold, and lonely, starved for affection and just wanting someone who truly loved me. I only hold off for a couple of seconds and then I give in to all the hopes and fears I had as a child and my face crumples.

He pulls me to him immediately, crushing me to his chest and I feel like the vulnerable little girl I never got to be. He rubs my back and strokes my hair and says soft, soothing words that make everything better and everything worse because it only makes me cry harder.

We spend a few minutes like that, hugging while I have my mini breakdown, before I somewhat reluctantly pull away. I wipe my face quickly, completely mortified.

"Um," I mumble, "would you like to come in?" I ask, motioning toward the door, kicking a loose stone.

He nods, smiling sadly. "We have a lot to talk about."

I pick my bag up off the cracked pavement where I'd dropped it, fishing out the key and slinking around the man—my father—with my shoulders hunched. I'm not scared of him, not really. Not in the way where I think he would hurt me, just nervous about all the things he could say to me and all the things he might not.

Unlocking the door, I push and hold it open behind me. I walk in and look around, trying see it through his eyes. It just looks like every other cheap motel I've ever stayed in. Ugly gray-brown carpet with some cigarette burns, twin bed, old TV, and my couch in the corner.

It's not messy. Everything I own is either clothes that are hung up in the closet, a few things in the bag I'm holding, or a couple odds and ends in my suitcase on the shelf above my clothes. Mom brought most of her stuff with her.

If he's thinking anything he doesn't voice it, so I just nod towards the couch while I sit stiffly on the edge of the mattress.

"How do I know you really are my father?" I ask in the silence that follows. I'm a little embarrassed I didn't immediately ask that but honestly I don't really need confirmation. Not when I'm looking at the proof right in front of me, but it feels like what I should ask.

He pulls his wallet out of his sleek pants pocket, opens it and slides something out, standing slightly to reach over and hand it to me.

It's a photo. It's faded from a lot of years and the edges are tattered as if it's been taken out a lot. My eyes are immediately drawn to the woman in the photo. Even if it's almost twenty years old, that woman is no doubt my mother.