Page 10 of Penance (Rising From the Ashes #2)

Lily

M iddle school was one of the worst times of my life. I know a lot of people say that because that stage is awkward for everyone, but for me, it was more than that. For most kids, it’s about finding a place where they fit, but I didn’t fit anywhere.

Since the day of my sixth birthday, I’d spent my time split between being the adult at home and trying to figure out how to be a kid at school.

None of my peers understood what that was like, so we didn’t have much in common.

It also didn’t help that Mom and I were poor as dirt.

Kids are cruel when you don’t look like them.

Add on the fact that I was several inches taller than most of the kids in my class, and I was a full-blown social outcast. But I was good at school, and that was all that mattered because even at that age, I’d decided to get out.

I wouldn’t live the rest of my life not knowing where my next meal was coming from.

I was going to get out, and I was taking my mom with me.

At least, that was my plan then. I was still under the delusion that my mother was someone worth saving.

As far as my dad went, he was no one to me—a man who showed up when the wind blew him in. To my mom, though, he was still the love of her life. She was holding out hope that one day, she’d be enough for him to stay. And the year I turned thirteen, he almost did.

He hadn’t bothered to show up on my birthday again since the day he bailed on my sixth.

His visits were random—few and far between—but it didn’t stop my mom from going through the same routine, cleaning the house and swiping on her red lipstick.

I’d long since stopped watching by the time my thirteenth birthday rolled around.

I knew how the day would end, and it was always with her head in my lap as she cried herself to sleep.

So I was sitting on the couch in the living room, counting down the minutes until the day would end with the inevitable, when the doorbell rang.

“Can you get that, Lily?” She called from her place in front of the bathroom mirror, and I obediently put away my book.

We didn’t get a lot of visitors, but sometimes our neighbor, Mrs. Riley, would bring over extra food when she had it—which wasn’t a lot.

In our trailer park, we were all struggling.

Walking to the door, I let myself dream about what Mrs. Riley would bring today.

Chocolate cake? Ice cream? Although I knew the reality of it being either of those things was slim to none, I was still lost in my daydreams when I opened the door.

I blame the ice cream for my distraction.

Otherwise, I would have seen that the shadowy figure on the other side of the front window wasn’t Mrs. Riley at all, and if I had noticed that, I never would have opened the door—saving my mom a lot of heartache.

But you can’t take back your mistakes, no matter how much they upend your life.

I opened the door, and there he was, my absent father in the flesh. He stood there smiling, his smile so much like my own, and for one single moment, I could understand why she loved him. Standing on our front porch with rotting wood and chipping paint, my dad smiled at me, and I loved him, too.

Even though he’d tried to tame it, his hair was messy, like it couldn’t live a life full of restraint.

His tanned skin spoke to the fact that he spent most of his days on Florida beaches, hours away from where Mom and I lived in Alabama, and his clothes were anything but conventional.

It was the spark in his eye that made him hard to hate, though.

He had a way of looking at you like you were special, at least until he left again.

Then you realized just how little you actually meant to him .

“Hey, kid,” he said, reaching out and chucking me on the chin as if we were anything but strangers. But that’s exactly what we were….strangers with the same DNA.

“Dean,” I said, turning my chin away. He didn’t seem to notice me calling him by his name or avoiding his touch. He was too busy staring at something behind me.

I turned my head just enough to see my mom standing there, a smile on her face that I hadn’t seen since the last time he was here. Dread settled in my veins like a rock.

“Hi.” Her voice was breathless as she stared back at him with pure love shining in her eyes. It made my stomach sick.

Jerking my gaze away, I turned back to face my dad.

He still wasn’t looking at me, so it gave me time to study him.

I wasn’t prepared to find love shining back on his face, too.

He was staring at her with a goofy smile, and I realized then that he loved her—but sometimes love isn’t enough.

Sometimes, the thing that’s supposed to heal is the thing that destroys instead.

Their love was toxic—not just to them but to me, too.

“Hi, Daisy girl? I’ve missed ya,” he said, his voice as soft as the look in his eyes.

I could hear my mom approaching, but I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to see the love on her face that would ultimately lead to her downfall. Instead, I interrupted their moment with more cynicism than a thirteen-year-old girl should have.

“What are you doing here, Dean?”

My mom sucked in a sharp breath, but I still didn’t look at her. I crossed my arms over my chest and continued to glare at my father.

My hostility didn’t faze Dean. His lips were still tilted up in a genuine smile when he pulled his gaze from my mom and said, “I wanted to take out my girls. How about it, birthday girl?”

I think he knew he had to go through me to get to my mom. It might have been my birthday, but we both knew he showed up for her .

I stared him down until my eyes burned, trying to decipher his intentions, and then I finally looked at my mom.

She was already looking back at me, her eyes pleading.

I could never tell her no. Eventually, that would change, but right then, I would have done anything to make her happy—and unfortunately, he was what made her happy.

So, with a sigh, I gave her what she wanted.

“Okay.”

______________________

Two weeks after my birthday, my dad was still around. He’d never stuck around that long, and I was developing a reluctant hope that he might stay. So was my mom. For the first time in my life, we were somewhat of a family, which was nice.

For two whole weeks, I got to be a kid, and it was some of the best days of my life. It felt like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I was happy, which was something I didn’t know I could be.

I’d raced home that day because, for once, I was happy to be there, but once again, my dad ruined everything.

The bus dropped me off after school that day, and I rushed into the house with a smile, but as soon as I stepped through the door, I knew something was wrong. The house was quiet—too quiet.

“Mom,” I called, but she did not answer me. I stood in our tiny living room, my brows furrowed. Something was different, but I couldn’t put my finger on what.

I stood there, staring at the carpet until I heard a small whimper from my mom’s bedroom. Dropping my backpack on the living room floor, I ran to her.

My heart beat like the wings of a hummingbird as I opened her door. I already knew what I’d find on the other side, but I needed to see it for myself—needed to confirm that I’d been right all along.

One Mississippi…Two….

The door opened, and once again, the weight fell back onto my shoulders. My mom was curled up on her bed, an empty bottle of wine tucked into her side as tears stained her face. She didn’t bother to look up when I walked into the room, each step heavier than the last.

“Mom,” I’d said, but she still didn’t respond to the sound of my voice.

When I reached the bed, I crawled up on it with her and sat with my back against the wall, gently pulling her head into my lap once I was settled. She didn’t fight me on it. She didn’t even move. He’d broken her—again—and I’d invited him in to do it.

After a minute of lying there, my fingers gently stroking her hair, she finally found the strength to speak, the two words she’d drowned herself in alcohol to avoid.

“He left.” She broke as she said it, the words barely audible through her sobs.

“I know, Mom.” And that was all that was said for the rest of the night. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to because we were both thinking the same thing. Once again, we paid our penance for loving a man who couldn’t love us back.

Later that night, when the house was quiet and my mom was asleep, I slipped out of her room to change into my pajamas.

The moon was bright enough that I didn’t bother with lights.

I let my hand follow the path of the wall, leading me to my bedroom.

Stepping inside, I closed the door behind me and let my back rest against it, sinking to the floor.

Tears burned my eyes, but I refused to let them fall.

I wouldn’t be like her. I wouldn’t cry over him.

I sat there with my eyes closed until I was afraid I would fall asleep, and then finally forced myself to my feet—and that’s when I saw it.

A silver chain lay on my bed, the metal gleaming in the moonlight. A note lay beneath it, a starch white against my black bedspread. My hands trembled as I reached out, picking up both the necklace and the note.

I’d never seen my dad’s handwriting before, but that didn’t matter. I knew the note was from him all the same. The six words written on it were proof enough of that .

Take care of her for me.

That’s all it said, and I resented him for it. I was tired of having no one to take care of me.

Crumpling the note, I tossed it across the room in a fit of anger. Hatred burned through me, and I thought about throwing the necklace, too. But the longer I held it, the more the idea of throwing it out bothered me.

I would keep it—not for him—but as a reminder of what loving the wrong person does to you.