Tug-at-your-heartstrings new adult first love story.
What starts as a bet to avoid cleanup duties at her minimum wage cashier job, wins Amelie D'Amico more than she's ever hoped for.
When Ben, a cute customer who always checkouts at her register, fi...
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Death is not the most important part of Dad's story. It's his life where I start: the joy he brought me with his jokes, his easy-going attitude, and the unwavering support of my endeavors, big or small.
With a massive grin on my face, I recount my childhood: I was the center of Dad's universe, and I was pleased he wanted to keep it that way. He glowed every time he saw me after we spent time apart, no matter whether he picked me up after a day at school or as I returned from spending three months across the ocean with Mom. My exhilaration of running into embrace, craving his almost too tight hugs and my happiness of having him to myself is what shows Dad's true impact on me, not his last breath in my useless arms.
Our tea abandoned, Ben and I huddle together on the couch, him sitting in the corner by the window, while I curl myself into a ball, my head in his lap. The warmth and heaviness of his hand on my shoulder comforts me, while the fingers of his other hand smooth my hair, trace my features, and stumble on an occasional runaway tear.
"Why don't you have any photos of your mom?" Ben points at the side table with a heavy metal frame of Dad, Nonna, and me smiling into the camera.
"I put them away." More like hid them out of sight in hopes that'd keep her out of mind.
"Why?"
"Because they hurt too much."
"Did she die as well? I thought you said she lives in France."
"She does. I finally talked to her today."
"Finally?" Ben asks.
"The last time we talked on the phone was two years ago."
"What happened?"
"Life happened is what she said. But"—I sigh—"I thought she didn't want me anymore, and she thought I didn't need her anymore." I wait for the kick of anger in my gut, but it doesn't come. I've been angry thinking about Mom for so many years, its absence screams at me. "She found out Dad died from a post I put online, and when she called to offer her condolences, she didn't offer to come for the funeral. I didn't ask." I voice the part I resented her for the most and wait for the anger to reappear. No anger. I push my ribs out and inhale. The air fills me and doesn't have to go around the angry ball that used to be in my chest.
"Why did she finally reach out?"
"I don't know." I should ask her that. "She was the one who started texting me on my birthday and after seeing your Mom today, I could no longer pretend I didn't want mine in my life."
"Have you forgiven her? You've forgiven me. You have forgiven me, right?"
I shift so that I can see his face, and he can see mine. "I've forgiven Mom and you and ... myself." Myself was not a planned word. It's the right one though. "Mom, she apologized in a million different ways, she even sent me a photo book— another apology of sorts. But I couldn't even look through it."
