Once, my paranoid love

Elena’s words were filled with genuine appreciation and a sense of warmth that she hadn’t felt in a long time. Her father’s gift was not just a dress; it was a symbol of his love and his desire to bring happiness into my life. It was a gesture that spoke volumes, bridging the gap that had separated them for years.

Robert’s heart ached as he heard his daughter’s words of gratitude and saw the genuine joy on her face as she admired the bridal gown he had given her. It was a bittersweet moment for him, as he realized just how much he had missed out on in her life.

As he watched Elena, a torrent of thoughts and emotions swirled within him. Regret and guilt gnawed at him, knowing that he had not been there for her when she needed him most. He had allowed his own struggles and failures to overshadow his responsibilities as a father.

“She is right,” Robert thought, his heart heavy with remorse. “Elena, I’m sorry. It was my fault that I couldn’t adequately care for you.” The weight of his past mistakes bore down on him, and he wished he could turn back time and be the father he should have been.

In that moment of reflection, Robert made a solemn decision. “I shall ask Mr. Huston to look after you,” he resolved, determination shining through his gloomy, heartbroken face. “If he wants, I’ll work for him for the rest of my life, but I’ll beg him to wish you happiness.”

It was a vow made with unwavering sincerity, a father’s desperate plea for forgiveness, and a heartfelt desire to make amends. Robert was willing to sacrifice his own well-being if it meant ensuring Elena’s happiness and security. Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by Elena’s voice.

“Dad!”

**

“Dad,” I called out to him, my voice filled with a newfound warmth and connection that had been missing from our relationship for so long.

Dad, with a gentle and affectionate smile, reached for the bowl of soup on the tray before us. “Today, I will feed my princess,” he remarked, his words carrying a sense of tenderness that I had longed to hear.

As I sat there, a small smile playing on my lips, I couldn’t help but reflect on the irony of the moment. When my mother passed away, it felt as though a chasm had opened between my father and me. He had withdrawn into his own grief, leaving me to navigate the complexities of life on my own.

But now, here we were, sharing a meal and a moment of intimacy that I had never expected. Life had a way of surprising us and rewriting the narratives we had come to accept.

As I savored the first spoonful of soup that my father offered me, I realized that this was a moment of healing and reconciliation. It was time for me to speak out and tell him what I wanted.

“Dad,” I began, my voice filled with determination as I looked into his eyes, “I’d like to take Pom with me.” I could sense the hesitation in his gaze, but I couldn’t let that deter me.

Pom, who had been quietly present, caught my father’s eye as well, her own expression one of hope and anticipation. We had forged a deep bond over the years, and I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her behind.

My father started to say something; his words were tinged with uncertainty, but I knew all too well what he was about to express. It was a sentiment I had encountered before-a hesitation rooted in the dynamics of our family.

But I couldn’t let that stand in my way. I interrupted him, my resolve unwavering. “Don’t tell me you have to ask your wife, Dad,” I asserted, my voice steady. “As my mother brought Pom here, I have the authority to take her with me.”

A sigh escaped my father’s lips, and he shook his head, sadness settling on his face. He was torn between his desire to grant my request and the complexity of his wife’s expectations.

I was determined to assert my own agency and make decisions that were in line with my own desires and values.

With a heavy heart, my father gave his reluctant permission, his gaze filled with a mixture of resignation and understanding. It was a pivotal moment in our relationship-a moment when he recognized my autonomy and my right to choose my own path.

“Go pack your things, Pom,” I said to her, turning my attention to her. My gaze met hers, and I could see the gratitude and relief in her eyes.

Pom left the room with a contented smile on her face, her departure marking the beginning of a new chapter in our journey together. The silence that followed her exit hung heavy in the room, an unspoken reminder of the complexities that still existed between my father and me.

Once upon a time, my father and I shared countless conversations, our bond as parent and child strong and unbreakable. But over the years, our relationship had grown strained, and those heart-to-heart talks had become a distant memory.

My father, seemingly unable to bear the weight of the silence any longer, abruptly broke it by calling my name, “Elena.” His voice held a note of vulnerability and a longing for reconciliation that tugged at my heart.

I turned to face him, my eyes meeting his, and replied simply, “Yes,” as I took a sip of my soup. The taste was familiar, a comforting reminder of the times when my father had lovingly prepared meals for me.

But then, my father surprised me with an unexpected question that caught me off guard. “Can you forgive me, daughter?” he asked, his voice tinged with a mixture of regret and hope.

I couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow in response, the corners of my lips curling into a faint smile. “What did you do?” I inquired, my tone light but filled with curiosity.

His question had stirred something within me-a sense of intrigue and wonder about what had prompted this sudden appeal for forgiveness. I had expected a somber confession or a heartfelt apology, but instead, my father’s words had taken a different turn, leaving me both amused and intrigued.

“I’m a terrible dad who doesn’t take care of his children. I have remained silent about whatever they did to you,” my father confessed, his voice heavy with remorse as he acknowledged his own shortcomings.

I couldn’t help but smile, though it was a smile tinged with both amusement and resignation. My father’s self-deprecating assessment of his parenting abilities was an admission I had long suspected, but hearing him say it out loud added a layer of complexity to our conversation.Published by Nôv'elD/rama.Org.

“How come you’re telling me this?” I asked, my curiosity piqued. It wasn’t often that my father delved into the depths of his own failings as a parent, and I was eager to understand the motivation behind his confession.

My father sighed, his gaze distant as he attempted to put his thoughts into words. “I’m sorry, baby,” he began, his voice filled with a mixture of regret and earnestness. “I tried to stop Anne from hurting you, but I knew she did listen to me sometimes.”

His words hung in the air, and I couldn’t help but furrow my brow in response. The mention of Anne, his wife, brought forth a multitude of questions and emotions. I had often wondered about her role in the difficulties I had faced, and my father’s admission hinted at a complex dynamic within their relationship.

As I considered my father’s explanation, I couldn’t help but think about the word “sometimes.” What did it mean that Anne had listened to him “sometimes”? Did it suggest that there were moments of compassion or restraint on her part, interspersed with the cruelty I had endured?

“However, Paul! He’s worried about you,” my dad continued, his tone earnest as he attempted to convey the sincerity of Paul’s concern.

I chuckled softly, unable to contain my amusement. My father’s mention of Paul and his supposed concern for me caught me by surprise. It was a topic I hadn’t expected to surface in our conversation, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“Is he concerned about me, Dad?” I replied, my laughter still lingering in my voice. “Yes, he genuinely cares about me.”

My father looked at me with a puzzled expression, clearly taken aback by my response. “What are you laughing about?” He asked, his confusion evident.

“The thought of his care makes me laugh,” I stated, my voice laced with sarcasm as I recalled the tumultuous history between Paul and me. “Yes, he showed a lot of concern for me last night.”

As I spoke, a bitter and ironic laugh escaped my lips. I had lost all my emotions and feelings about how to express them. What to say, I… I lost every emotion last night, inside the car… I left everything there with him.