Golden Hands | Harry Styles (COMPLETED)

thirteen

[EDITED]

My dad's laughter fills the car, moving a strand of his grey hair away, which is held by some gel. He picked me up as he promised, accidentally dropping his phone when he held his arms out outside the gates waiting for a hug. I know how hard it can be for him; to lose the love of his life while his daughter—and the only family member left—wandered the streets of other countries. However, his effortlessly genuine and warm-hearted nature wouldn't let me convince him that those things I'm building in my life can be shared with him.

That's probably where my stubborn side comes from. Somehow, every time I plan my next trip to Italy, my father won't let me take him with me. He's always been torn between letting me discover my independency and the way I want to continue my path in life, and spending as much time with me as he can. Yet, he still believes that his presence will butcher my experiences.

Growing up, he used to tell me how my mother faced a similar situation. She struggled to try to move on from her household, and more often than not she'd put up with anxiety just to let it go. She was never bothered by his family's presence; it wasn't a perfect family but she still loved them unconditionally. Perhaps not unconditionally, if you will. She had conditions—conditions that she started to be bothered with. 

When she reached a certain age, I don't think she wanted to be there anymore. It wasn't so bad; she wanted independence and to take care of things on her own. She confessed one time that she felt like she wasn't meant to be there for that long. A house that was once known as her safe haven became quite the intruder. She always tried to plan ahead of time the perfect moment to go to the kitchen to have her tea and toast on time before anyone else came in, for she prefered to be alone. 

When her father noticed that, he tried to bring back old memories. He planned a roast for Sunday, he asked her to fix a cabinet with him, and he even took out her favourite book as a child—Matilda. She knew, then, that she had to go. From then on, she felt slightly happier. She made her own decisions and she let herself feel what she needed to feel without anyone hovering over her.

And while I'm not uncomfortable around my father, I don't know how to fix a cabinet, and my favourite story isn't Matilda, I understand what she went through. I don't want it for me nor do I want my father to feel like that's what I need; I feel hurt when I think of my mother feeling so low back then.