Page 299 of Tell Me I'm Enough

I thought space would make this easier, but it hasn’t. It’s just shown me how much I really felt for him, how toxically I was addicted to him, how stupidly in love I was.

All I do lately is pray—something I’ve never done. It’s the only thing that makes me feel like I have some control here. Like if I can’t fix things myself, maybe telling the man upstairs to is the next closest thing to being in control I can feel.

I just want him to be okay. I want to know he’s safe. I want to know he has someone watching out for him. I want to know he hasn’t gone too far and can’t come back. I want to know he’s not drowning in his own mind.

I don’t really know what I want. I just…I want him. I know that much. Even when the logical side of my brain knows I can’t have him, not right now at least. My heart doesn’t listen. She only knows him. She onlywantshim.

The screen door opens behind me. I know it’s my dad, and I don’t turn right away. I know it’s him because his footsteps are heavier than my mom’s, sometimes slower too, like he’s always cautiously approaching everyone.

He clears his throat, then he just stands there for a second.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” I answer, my voice quiet as I stare out at the yard.

He steps out and sits on the arm of one of the woven chairs, staring out at the yard with me like we’re watching something important.

We’re not. It’s just a small yard full of grass and a couple of trees in the dark. But we act like it’s fascinating so we don’t have to look at each other.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“No.”

He nods like he expected that. “Your mom made pasta.”

“I’ll eat later.”

He nods again, and then there’s more silence.

I can feel him trying, like he’s searching for the right doorway into my head, but he’s never had the right map, so he doesn’t really know what he’s doing or what path to take to get in there.

That’s basically the explanation of our relationship. My dad and I have always loved each other in a way that was…distant. Polite but foreign. Like we’re related, but we’re not sure how to be close.

He’s the kind of dad who shows love through providing. Bills were always paid on time, never worried about food, had cars to drive, and a roof over our head. But hugs? Real conversations? Emotions? Those have always felt like another language when it comes to him.

He shifts beside me on the arm.

“You’ve been quiet,” he says.

“I’m always quiet.”

He looks down at me, giving me a ‘I know you better than that’ look.But does he?

“I only have one daughter,” he says with a smile. “And she hasn’t been quiet a day in her life since she entered this world.”

My throat tightens, and I just stare straight ahead so I don’t have to watch his face or see the concern that feels so foreign on it.

College gave me freedom, and it gave me space. And in that space, I started seeing things more clearly. Seeing him. Seeing how the distance wasn’t just a personality trait. It was more of a pattern. And it shaped me. It shaped what I thought love was. What I thought I deserved. Or what I thought was normal.

“What’s going on, Simone?” he asks.

The question is gentle, which makes it harder to want to stay closed off.

I love my dad. I just…don’t really know him.

I swallow. “I don’t know.”

He softens up, and I can tell he really wants to know. “Yes, you do.”