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WHEN I WAS A CHILD, I had this idea that love would always prevail, this imagery in my mind that no matter what was thrown at two people, things would be okay. Wasn't that what love was supposed to be? Self sacrifice?
I was wrong. Really wrong. I'm not even sure where I got the idea from — considering my parents divorced when I was just a little kid. You'd think a child of divorce wouldn't believe in love. Maybe I do. Maybe I don't. I hardly have enough experience to wager, anyways.
Fun fact about me: (except it's not a fun fact in the slightest, more like a fucked up fact) my dad's divorce attorney has ultimately come to be the source of my spiralling downfall.
How, is the question at the tip of your tongue? To summarize it blatantly, that rat faced old man is the reason why I'm standing in this airport right now, glancing around like a lost puppy as anxiety bubbles within my chest. It's a longer story than that, but I know most people zone out halfway through me relaying it to them. I've decided until further notice that I will no longer be whoring my story around to anyone who'll listen — because I totally don't have an over sharing problem . . . yeah, definitely not.
Homesick is all that I feel.
From the moment I am greeted by Allistair, a tall and gangly man wearing the fanciest suit I think I've ever seen, I come to realize that the scenarios I'd stirred up in mind on the plain ride over were not very accurate. I expected my dad to be here, that maybe I'd receive a hug or something. I'd tried to convince myself to stay positive, to not discard all hopes just yet.
But my father isn't here. In fact, the only one who's spoken to me since I've arrived was the flight attendant, kindly offering me a complementary pack of tissues.
Wow. Why does that make me sound like such a loser?
I don't see why my dad couldn't have came and picked me up himself. You know, with the whole not having seen each other for two whole years thing . . . I'm not too surprised, however. He never was one for the little gestures, although it would have meant a lot to me it's increasingly clear that he could care less.
I don't care though— er, maybe I do. But I don't want to. I want to hate him. Part of me already does. Always has. There's another part that refuses to let go of the hope that he'll change his ways, which is a very unrealistic prospect. All of this inner conflict is promoting stress acne, I can feel it. If I wake up tomorrow with a new pimple, I'm officially quitting overthinking.
"How do you fair, Ms. Bellford? The flight was of your satisfaction, no?" His French accent laces through every word, making it a tad hard to understand what he asks.
