Not So Perfect

Boyfriend

 The silence in Tony's apartment is thick, heavy with unspoken questions. Hours have passed since they arrived, the late hour amplifying the tension that crackles between them. The city outside is a distant hum, a stark contrast to the storm raging within Angela.

She sits on the sofa, the soft blanket draped around her shoulders, her gaze fixed on a point in the distance, yet seeing nothing. The remnants of tears have dried on her cheeks, leaving behind a raw, stinging sensation. The steaming mug of tea Tony made sits untouched on the coffee table, its warmth dissipating into the cool night air.

The confrontation with her father replays in her mind, a broken record of accusations and denials. The names, Carol Willis, Sophie, Ellie, echo in her head, each syllable a painful reminder of the secrets that have shaped her life.

Tony sits beside her, his presence a quiet anchor in the chaos. He doesn't press her, doesn't demand explanations. He understands that some wounds need time to heal, some silences need to be filled with understanding, not words. The unspoken questions, however, hang in the air, a palpable weight.

Who was Carol Willis? What was her connection to my father? Why the lies? Why the secrecy? And most importantly, where are Sophie and Ellie?

Angela's gaze drifts to the clock on the wall, the late hour a stark reminder of the time slipping away, the urgency of finding Sophie and Ellie growing with each passing minute. The silence stretches, an uncomfortable expanse of unspoken pain and unanswered questions. She turns to Tony, her eyes filled with a desperate plea for understanding.

"I... I don't know where to start," she whispers, her voice hoarse, the words barely audible.

The unspoken tension, the weight of the secrets, the sheer magnitude of the situation, hangs heavily in the small apartment. They both know this night will be long, and the answers, when they come, will likely shatter the fragile peace they've built.

Tony shifts closer, his gaze softening, his voice gentle. "Start anywhere," he says, his hand reaching out to cover hers, a silent encouragement. "Just... let it out."

Angela takes a shaky breath, the dam inside her threatening to break, but she holds back, a careful control settling over her. "It's... it's about my mother," she begins, her voice trembling, carefully choosing her words. "Everything my father told me... it was a lie."

She pauses, the weight of the deception almost too much to bear, but she still holds a lot back. "He told me... he told me she was dead," she whispers, the word a bitter taste on her tongue, a carefully constructed half-truth. "That she died years ago."

Tony's eyes widen, his expression a mixture of shock and disbelief. "Angela..."

"But she's not," Angela continues, her voice gaining strength, the anger beginning to push through the hurt, but she still keeps details hidden. "She's alive. And... and I have a sister."

The words hang in the air, heavy with the implications of years of lies, but Tony still senses the immense amount of information withheld. He is stunned, trying to process the magnitude of what Angela is telling him.

"A sister?" he asks, his voice barely audible.

Angela nods, her eyes filling with tears again, but this time, they're tears of rage, a controlled fury. "My mother left my father years ago. She divorced him. And she took my sister with her."

She pauses, the memory of the discovery sharp and painful, but she omits the details of how she found out, the specific conversations, the intricate web of lies she's been unraveling. "I found out... a few months ago. When I was trying to help Sophie."