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She groans. “I’m not talking about your house. I’m talking aboutyouand Dad. You need to talk before you drive me nuts. He’s turned into an unbearable grump. And the way you left. How can you treat him like he’s disposable?”

“How could he treat our mother like she was nothing?”

“He loved her once. She treatedthatand us like we were nothing. And by the time she died, that’s exactly what she was to him.”

“She was the mother of his children.”

“She may have given birth to us, but if being a mother has taught me anything, it’s that blood doesn’t give you the right to be called that.”

“She was our mother,” I reiterate. “And you two can act like she never existed, but don’t expect me to.” My voice is much quieter than the anger this conversation is whipping up inside me.

“She abandoned us.”

“She was anaddict,” I shout.

“She made a choice, Omar. She doesn’t deserve your loyalty or grief.”

“I loved her.” The ache in my chest hasn’t dulled one bit since she passed away.

“She abandoned you,” she repeats. “And yet it’s the parent who stayed, who loves you back, you’re treating like the enemy.”

Layel has always been good at throwing a punch and stroking at the same time. But she doesn’t know what happened, and what I owe our mother.

“You should call him. Talk this out. He won’t admit it, but he’s distraught that you left.”

“Well, I was too distraught to stay.”

She sighs as if in exasperation. “Omar, please. I know he hurt you. And he’s sorry.”

I scoff. “Right. So sorry he hasn’t called me in months.”

“You said some terrible things to each other, and he’s a proud man. But he’s also your father. And you owe him respect.” That is the traditional upbringing of ours showing itself. Where respect is deserved simply because someone is older than you. I never believed in that, and I’m not a kid anymore.

“Please call him,” she pleads.

“I will. As soon as I can.”

She doesn’t respond. But I know that’s not good enough without her telling me.

I cough to clear the lump of guilt out of my throat. “I love you. Bye.”

I hang up and put my phone on silent.

I sit there, my eyes glued to the scenery but not seeing any of it. “Shit.” I drop my head into my hands, sadder than I am angry.

I left. And now I can’t fix it without eating humble pie I have zero appetite for.

“The best revenge is forgiveness.” The words, whispered by a voice so close to my ear that the speaker’s lips brush them, startles me out of my seat.

It happens so quickly that I hear a telltale crunch of bone and her howl of pain before I realize the back of my head hasconnected with the soft cartilage of a nose. I turn around, full of apologies, and freeze.

It’s Jules, the girl behind the bar at my local that makes my tongue tied and clumsy.

Her sob of pain and the blood running from her nose and down her chin onto the floor shake me out of my stupor.

I pull my handkerchief from my pocket. “I’m so sorry. Here, use this, I’ll get help.”

“What in the world is going on out here?” Reena asks as she approaches from inside the open terrace door. She stops mid-stride when she sees her friend doubled over and crying with my dark yellow handkerchief pressed to her bloody nose.