A hospitality staff standing at the reception area | Source: Pexels
“What’s wrong, sweetie?” he asked, leading me to the kitchen, putting on the kettle.
My dad listened, his face a mask of concern. He reached across the table and took my hand. “That’s a terrible thing to say, honey,” he said, his voice soft, but I noticed a strange tremor in it. His eyes flickered away for a second, a fleeting nervous glance towards the window. Odd.
“I just… I don’t understand it,” I whispered, wiping my eyes. “He was always so supportive. He encouraged me to stay home, to focus on our family. He said it was an investment in us. And now… now it feels like he resents me for it. Like I’m just a charity case.”
An upset man | Source: Midjourney
An upset man | Source: Midjourney
I looked at my dad, searching his eyes for reassurance, for an explanation, for him to tell me my husband was just drunk, that he didn’t mean it. I needed him to tell me I wasn’t a burden.
He squeezed my hand tighter. “You’re not a charity case,” he said, his voice barely audible now. He looked down at our clasped hands, his knuckles white. “It’s… it’s complicated.”
“Complicated?” My blood ran cold. What could be complicated about this?
He lifted his head, and his eyes, usually so steady and clear, were cloudy with a pain I’d never seen before. A terrible, crushing guilt. He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Honey,” he started, then paused, as if gathering the strength for a confession he’d held captive for far too long. “I know why he said that.”
My breath hitched. “Why, Dad? Please. Tell me.”
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