Page 170 of Tell Me I'm Enough

“So you just use all my employees to get yourself off?”

“Don’t you?” I ask, spitefully. “Isn’t that what Rose was before you married her? You know, when your last wife was still alive…sick and dying while you were off screwing another woman, if not multiple.”

“Don’t disrespect your mother like that.”

“Nicholeis my mother,” I spit, “notRose.”

“Yet Rose is here, and your mother isn’t…guess that was just the universe getting rid of the ones who aren’t supposed to be here and keeping the ones who are.”

The fury in my chest burns more than any amount of alcohol could. “Everyone is just some pawn in your world, huh?”

My dad’s eyes narrow. “You’rethe pawn, Mason. You just don’t realize it.”

Something in me cracks at his cruel words, and I look at him in disbelief. “Why do you hate me so much?”

His expression doesn’t change. Sometimes that’s the part that hurts the most. It’s like my words don’t affect him, like his own son could bleed out in front of him and he’d just critique the mess I was making.

“I don’t hate you,” he says, but there’s no sincerity behind it.

“You don’t love me,” I spit.

He huffs as his nostrils flare slightly. “Grow up.”

“Say it then.”

“You need to get back to work.”

“Answer me,” I say, stepping closer to him with shaking hands and a heart that feels like it’s splintering into pieces. “Just answer me. Did youeverlove me?”

He stares at me like he can’t comprehend why I’m asking, why I care. Love isn’t something he understands.

“Mason,” he warns.

“Why can’t you just say it?”

“Because this is so unnecessary.”

“It’s not unnecessary! It’s me begging you to say three fucking words!” I shout. “I’m not your investment! I’m not your project, not your legacy, not some fucking insurance policy—”

“You’re my son,” he snaps.

“Then act like it!” I yell, the emotions getting thick in my throat. “Act like you give a shit whether I’m alive or not!”

The words hang in the air.

EvenIhear them and feel sick with embarrassment.

My dad’s face hardens. “Stop being dramatic.”

I blink back the tears.

It feels like getting slapped when his words hit me.

“Dramatic,” I echo, voice low and broken. “That’s what you call me asking my father if he ever loved me?”

He doesn’t answer. He won’t. Because showing love to him is a weakness. And my dad would rather die than be weak.

My throat burns. “Say it,” I whisper, the pathetic desperation slipping into my tone. “Just say you loved me. Ever. I don’t even care if it’s past tense. Just…say it.”