Speak to Me

But I Need You Anyway

In the following weeks I tried to settle in. I got on really well with dad, however I kept on fighting with my sister. I simply tried to avoid her husband, that guy just simply freaked me out. He was always smiling. Creepy. Hella creepy, to be more exact. My nephew, Eric got born two weeks after my arrival. Dad had bittersweet feelings. He was happy his grandson got born, he was waiting for him, no doubt about that. But he was sad because mom couldn't see him. Also, he couldn't really cuddle him or watch him growing up. I understood his pain. It must be terrible. I was still a kid person of course, sometimes I took care of him. I really missed working with children sometimes.

Lily couldn't relax, not for a single second. Just like when we were younger. She wanted to be perfect. Sure, she was stressed when we only had to deal with dad, but after Eric got born she became just worse. And she couldn't let the past go. No matter how much I tried, she kept bringing things up. I had to defend myself. I just knew this whole kind of rivalry between us made dad sad. I was so tired of fighting with her. Sometimes I just wanted to get into my car and go home. But I couldn't do that to dad, although it would have taught a lesson to my sister.

Emily and I talked almost every day. She wanted to meet my family. Dad wanted to meet her, too. He was curious about the person who could handle me. He often joked about that Byron was just a desperate decision. I never told him he was actually right. Dad and Emily constantly bugged me about that she should visit us during summer. I really wanted to see her but I knew she had her things to do even during summer. She wanted me to get home, but she understood I just couldn't leave my dad. She understood, because she had already lost hers.

There were periods when dad seemed to be really fine. He mostly needed help with walking and getting a bath, but disregarding his motor symptoms he was more than okay. He kept joking around, he tried to get to know me again, I guess. There were evenings when he kept talking about his relationship with mom. He really missed her. It's understandable, they basically lived their whole lives together. I heard stories I had never heard before. And I honestly loved those stories. He admired my mother until the very end, and we both agreed upon she could be tightly-wound, strict and hissy. But he loved her, no matter what. He married her and he was more than happy - almost ecstatic as he said -, when he found out that mom was pregnant.

Dad helped me more than anytime before. He kept telling me that they were somewhat proud of me. Because I was strong and I always fought for what I believed in. Because I believed in others. Because I never hated anyone. And that mom loved me, too. She just didn't have the time to tell me. I often felt otherwise, especially in my teens. Mom always knew what to say to hurt me. Maybe she thought that her words would affect me and I'd try to get on a "better path", but she was wrong. I don't think she ever realized how much she hurt me. In the end I wasn't mad at her, of course. Everybody makes mistakes, and parenting is never easy. Nothing is easy.

Money was getting tighter and tighter and I was about to try to find a job, but I inherited a pretty nice sum of money from mom. Dad kept telling me I deserved that. That I remained strong in all those years. That nobody knew mom would die so suddenly. That she loved me. I heard this at least ten times a day. Dad still loved her. He couldn't let her go.

One evening he asked for me. He was lying in bed and smiled at me when I got there.

"Come here sweetheart, sit down."

"What's up, dad?" I sat down.

"Can we talk about that Byron?"

"What's with him? He's history." I frowned.

"Your desperate decision." he chuckled as he sat up and rolled his eyes as he saw my somewhat worried expression "I'm fine. Well, I almost said I'm not dying."