PART 9: My Father Finally Called Without Asking Me to Fix Anything for Leah
The message about Leah and Max arrived while I was standing barefoot in my kitchen cutting a lime.
My cousin Jamie had written only six words.
Did you hear about Leah and Max?
I put the knife down.
For several seconds, I just watched juice collect on the cutting board.
Then I typed:
No. What happened?
The three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
They separated.
I read it twice.
Outside, the late-afternoon sun was turning the ocean almost silver.
A ceiling fan moved warm air through the kitchen.
Everything around me remained calm.
My stomach did not.
I called Jamie.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hey.”
“What happened?”
“I probably shouldn’t be the one telling you.”
“You already told me.”
“Fair.”
I walked onto the terrace.
“Are they actually separated?”
“Yeah.”
“How long?”
“A couple weeks, maybe.”
I leaned against the railing.
“Why?”
Jamie exhaled.
“It sounds complicated.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I only know what people are saying.”
“Then tell me exactly that.”
He paused.
“Apparently they’ve been fighting for months.”
“About what?”
“Money. Social media. Family stuff.”
I looked toward the water.
“Me?”
Another pause.
“Partly.”
I closed my eyes.
“Jamie.”
“I’m not trying to stir anything.”
“I know.”
He lowered his voice.
“Max apparently got tired of the whole thing.”
“What whole thing?”
“The constant appearances.”
He hesitated.
“And what happened with you.”
I said nothing.
Jamie continued.
“Someone said Max told her that if she could treat her own brother like that when he stopped doing what she wanted, he started wondering what would happen when he stopped.”
I tightened my grip on the railing.
“Did Max tell you that?”
“No.”
“Then I’m not treating it like fact.”
“Fair.”
That mattered to me.
I had spent too long suffering under stories other people built from fragments.
I was not going to build one about Leah now.
“Is she okay?” I asked.
Jamie seemed surprised.
“I think so.”
“The kids?”
“They’re with both of them.”
“Good.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“You don’t sound happy.”
“Why would I be?”
“I don’t know.”
He laughed awkwardly.
“After everything…”
I looked across the sand.
“Her marriage falling apart doesn’t repair anything that happened to me.”
“No.”
“And I never wanted that.”
“I know.”
We ended the call a few minutes later.
I went back into the kitchen.
The lime was still sitting where I left it.
For some reason, that tiny detail bothered me.
I finished cutting it.
Made dinner.
Ate half.
Then gave up.
That night, I sat outside with the lights off.
My phone rested facedown beside me.
I remembered Leah at sixteen, pounding on my bedroom door because I had borrowed her headphones.
Leah at twenty, teaching me how to parallel park while insulting every other driver on the road.
Leah sitting beside me all night when I got food poisoning during our parents’ anniversary trip.
Those memories did not erase the others.
But the reverse was also true.
She had hurt me.
That did not make every good thing fake.
I hated how complicated that felt.
The next afternoon, Dad called.
I stared at his name until the screen almost stopped ringing.
Then answered.
“Hey.”
“Blake.”
His voice was quieter than usual.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes.”
A pause.
“Do you have a minute?”
I looked at the laptop open beside me.
“Yeah.”
“I read the article.”
I waited.
“The newer one?”
“Yes.”
He cleared his throat.
“And your essay.”
My hand rested on the table.
“Okay.”
Another pause.
Dad had always filled silence with advice.
This time he seemed afraid of it.
Finally, he said, “I didn’t know.”
I looked toward the ocean.
“What part?”
“How much of it.”
He exhaled.
“How long you felt pushed out.”
My jaw tightened.
“You should’ve known.”
“I know.”
The answer came immediately.
That stopped me.
Dad continued.
“I should have known.”
I sat back.
“That’s on me.”
No defense followed.
No mention of Leah.
No explanation about finances.
No reminder that Mom’s cruise had happened years earlier.
Just the sentence.
I did not know what to do with it.
“You always seemed fine,” he said.
I laughed once.
“Because every time I said I wasn’t, someone told me not to take it personally.”
Silence.
Then Dad said, “I did that.”
“Yes.”
“I thought I was keeping peace.”
“For whom?”
He did not answer right away.
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?”
I looked down.
“What?”
“I kept calling it peace because you were the one least likely to fight.”
My throat tightened.
Dad continued.
“Your sister got upset loudly.”
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
“So I kept asking you to absorb more because it was easier.”
That sentence went through me slowly.
I stood and walked toward the edge of the terrace.
The sun was low enough now that the shadows of the railing stretched across the tile.
“I’m sorry, Blake.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“Good.”
He gave a small laugh.
It helped.
Then he went quiet again.
“I’d like to be part of your life.”
I looked out at the water.
“As what?”
“My dad.”
The answer came so simply that I almost laughed.
He continued.
“Not Leah’s mediator.”
“Not the person telling you to be the bigger man.”
“Not the fixer.”
“Just your dad.”
My chest tightened.
For years, I had imagined hearing something like that.
In those imaginary versions, I always knew exactly what to say.
Reality was messier.
“I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“I understand.”
I looked at the phone.
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“No pressure?”
“No pressure.”
That was new.
I sat down again.
After a moment, Dad said, “Your mother wants to say hello.”
Mom came onto the line.
Her apology was softer.
Less precise.
More emotional.
But she did not ask me to contact Leah.
She did not ask me to forgive anyone.
That mattered more than perfect wording.
When the call ended, I stayed at the table.
Louise appeared from the side path carrying a toolbox.
He looked at me.
“You look like someone has told you something expensive.”
I laughed.
“My father apologized.”
Louise stopped.
“Ah.”
“That response seems dramatic.”
“No.”
He set the toolbox down.
“That is often more expensive than money.”
I shook my head.
“Do you always have something philosophical ready?”
“I am old.”
He shrugged.
“It is one of the few benefits.”
I laughed again.
Then my laptop chimed.
A new email had arrived.
The sender was a documentary production company.
I opened it.
They had read Alyssa’s articles.
Seen the villa website.
They wanted to film a short feature about my story.
Louise leaned over just enough to see my expression.
“Good news?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do they want?”
“My face on camera.”
He recoiled dramatically.
“Terrible news.”
I shoved his shoulder.
He laughed and picked up his toolbox.
But after he walked away, I opened the email again.
For years, I had wanted my family to hear me.
Now strangers were asking me to speak.
And I had to decide how much of my story I was finally willing to say out loud.
END PART 9
