Page 73 of Keeping Score

“You were gone for fifteen years,” I emphasized, fighting the tears that were threatening to drown me.

“I wasn’t meant to be a father to young children. Not every man is. Children aren’t for everyone. I couldn’t handle it all. The two of you. Your mother. The perfect family life she wanted.”

“Then you shouldn’t have had them!” I yelled. “But you did, so you’re supposed to learn how to handle it. You just figure it out. Even if it’s hard. Even if it takes a little bit of work. You figure it out!”

“Margaret,” he scolded as loud as he dared. “Be sensible.”

“It’s Maggie!” I yelled, infuriated at his pretense of calm while I was boiling over with years of half-buried emotion.

“Lower your voice!” he ordered. “I have neighbors.”

“I’m your daughter,” I said even louder. “Do you know that? Do you understand?”

“What is your point?” he asked, and the way he refused to confirm it was almost too much to bear.

“Don’t you love me?” I asked, feeling my heart break in my chest as the words escaped in a pitiful whisper.

He stared down at me, shaking his head in disgust.

“You’re just like your mother. I thought you were smarter than that, but clearly you’re every bit as emotional. It’s a shame. You might’ve done great things otherwise.”

I felt the breath leave my lungs, along with every bit of fight left in me.

I didn’t want to tell him I had already done great things. I wanted him to already have known. I wanted him to be proud of me.

I didn’t want a father, I wanted a Dad. And it took every ounce of courage in me to admit to myself what I hadn’t dared even think.

He wasn’t ever going to be who I wanted.

And I couldn’t change the past.

And, maybe worst of all, my brother had been right.

“I have to go,” I said in a whisper, still only steps away from the door I came through.

When I reached for the knob, he didn’t try to stop me. For some reason, I didn’t even care.

Chapter Eighteen

Brody

“Brody,” Maggie’s voice spoke into the darkness.

The bed rustled, and then she was beside me. I reached for her before I even opened my eyes, relieved she was finally home.

“Hi, Mags,” I mumbled sleepily, trying to pull her down beside me.

I squinted through bleary eyes when I felt her resistance to my tug.

“Get up,” she whispered, pulling at my arm. “Let’s go on a ride.”

That got my attention. I moved to a sitting position, feeling half delusional in my state of exhaustion as I stared at her, still dressed in court clothes.

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Past midnight.”

“Where have you been?” I asked, highly aware of the manic energy she was vibrating with.