Page 181 of Sweet Nightmare
“There’s my baby.”
I roll my eyes.
He still thinks his daughter, who will be entering her third decade in three years, is his baby.
“A baby who is twenty-seven.”
His grin widens.
“When you’re ninety and terrorizing nurses in a retirement home, you’ll still be my baby.”
Warmth settles in my chest. The kind of warmth only my father’s unconditional and very blind love can bring out of me.
No one would ever guess I’m a daddy’s girl, and no one but him will ever know.
“Hello, Father.”
His smile softens and his blue eyes sparkle with joy.
This man really does love me. Cold, slightly frightening personality and all. He looks at me the same way he looks at every masterpiece he creates, as if I’m something precious he could never bring himself to stop admiring.
My father is the embodiment of true love.
“There’s my moonbeam.”
See?
All love.
My father genuinely believes the moon personally delivered me to him, wrapped in starlight and entirely too much attitude.
I suspect it is because we share the same personality.
Cold, antisocial and quietly judgmental.
Dad’s smile falters as he studies me.
It’s subtle, but I know my father well enough to notice.
He has always had a way of looking at me that makes every carefully constructed wall feel transparent, as if he can see straight through my skin and into whatever I’m trying to hide.
“Something wrong, mia figlia?”
I bite my lip.
“No.”
His eyes narrow.
“Don’t lie to me, baby. That hurts my heart.”
I almost smile.
“Lying is necessary sometimes.”
It is.
I only ever lie to my parents when I think the truth might hurt them. When I think sparing their soft hearts is kinder than burdening them with whatever is weighing on mine.
