Page 123 of Threaded Lies

“Of course,” I say. “Thank you so much for everything. We’re so grateful.”

“When can we see him?” my mom asks.

“We’re still finishing up in the OR. As soon as he’s set up in the ICU, you can visit for a little bit. One person at a time.”

FIFTY-ONE

Rowan

He looks frail.

Of all the ways in my life that I’ve thought of my dad, frail is not one of them.

And yet right now with tubes and leads attached to him, with his skin gray and his lips lax, that’s exactly how he looks.

But there is a comfort to the beeps of the machines and the squeaky shoes walking on the linoleum floor. They are signs that he is going to be okay.

“I’m here, Dad,” I say softly as I grab his hand and sit down in the chair beside the bed.

Ten minutes. That’s all the time I get with him, but I’m grateful I at least get that.

“You scared us. Are scaring us.” I wipe the tear that falls with the back of my hand and exhale a shaky breath.

But even now, even in this scary moment, there is an awkwardness between us. Between what I want to say and what I feel is appropriate to say.

I’m sorry we’re not closer.

I’m sorry I’m not who you want me to be.

I’m sorry to have let you down.

But honestly, I’m not really sorry at all.

The tears come. Hard and fast, and it must just be because I’m loopy-tired and all the stress of the past few hours has finally hit me. But I think it’s so much more than that.

It’s the realization that I can love this man unconditionally—despite everything—and I fear that it’s not reciprocal.

He hasn’t really talked to me since the announcement of the co-CEO.

He hasn’t said a word since The Vine.

It’s one of those things to think you’ve disappointed your parents, but it’s a whole other ball game when you realize you actually did.

And maybe it’s that right now that is gutting me. The knowledge that I have to be who I am, even knowing it will forever change my relationship with my parents and how they look at me.

And then I wonder if maybe this accident, this brush with death, will allow my dad to see me in a different light.

That he’ll accept me and my ambition rather than think less of me for it.

He won’t.

I know deep in my heart of hearts he won’t.

I study him. The strong hands I used to hold on to as a child. The broad chest I used to rest my head on when I slept. The face I used to look to for encouragement when I doubted myself. And the same face I look at now, knowing we see each other through such different gazes.

A man who did so many things right in his life and a lot of things knowingly wrong. And I realize I am silently asking him to accept me for who I am and I can’t do the same for him.

Forgiveness isn’t a two-sided requirement.