Page 80 of The Probability of Us

His body deflates. He looks so tired, so worn down. It’s hard to look at the damage he’s done to himself—and to us—in the broad daylight.

I can’t stand to see the hurt and regret in his eyes—and I feel guilty for thinking he deserves all of it—so I look away.

“I went to an AA meeting last weekend,” he says. “I’m going to another one today.”

I nod, still looking at a half-packed box of decorations across the room. “That’s great.”

The silence that descends over us is heavy and uncomfortable—like a cheap, wool blanket that scratches at your skin. The father-daughter bond we once had was severed, and one apology isn’t going to be enough to fix it.

He clears his throat, and I slowly look over. He wrings his hands together, scratches his neck, and looks everywhere but at me. “So, when do you leave?”

“Next week.”

“Would it—” He swallows and shifts his eyes to meet mine. “Would it be okay if I visited?”

I take a deep breath, looking up to try to stop the burning sensation building behind my eyes again. “Why don’t we see how your meetings go for a bit first?”

He looks down, his face turning red. “Of course.”

I don’t know what else to say. I hope he does stick with it. I hope he gets sober. I hope we get to a point where he does visit. But I’m not expecting anything. I need proof before I’ll open space for him in my life again.

“Well.” He tries to smile but the corner of his mouth twitches between a smile and frown. “I’ll let you get back to it then.”

I nod, and he turns to leave. There’s defeat in the way he’s holding himself as he slinks to the front door. My chest tightens. I was going to just let him leave, but when his hand grabs the handle, the words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

“Why—” I take a shaky breath, and he stops. “Why now?”

But what I really mean is:Why not the hundreds of times I tried to help you?I tried so hard, for so long, but it did nothing. He screamed and yelled and cursed at me. And just as I’m about to move away—and started to feel the smallest bit of relief that I won’t be close enough to feel obligated to stop by anymore—that’s when he decides to change.

“I’m not sure if any of this actually happened, or if it was just a hallucination, but last week Warren came to visit me.” He doesn’t turn to look at me, but my eyes immediately go wide.

Last Thursday he was late to work forpersonal reasons—the day after he found out my dad threw that glass at me. Of course, he went to see my dad. How did I not realize that sooner?

“He was furious with me,” he continues. “He said something about how I hurt you. That I was lucky it wasn’t a more serious injury. He told me that if I ever hurt you again, he wouldn’t hesitate to call the cops and have me locked up.”

Warren must’ve restrained himself a lot—to be there and not lay a single hand on him. To not say he’d kill him if he hurt me again. Because I know for a fact that’s what he wanted to do.

“When he left, I figured one of two things had to be true. Either I actually hurt you and that was real, or I was dying, and it was just a hallucination.” His voice cracks, and tears stream down both of our faces. “And in that moment, I prayed Iwasdying. Because having to deal with the reality that I might’ve truly done those things to you”—he shakes his head and the next words barely make it to my ears—“was too much to bear.”

I expect him to keep talking, but he goes silent, his body rigid. and after a time, I realize he wants to know. He wants me to tell him if he truly hurt me—if he threw that glass. My stomach turns and I feel sick knowing he could do all these things to me and just simply forget them when the sight of him lifeless on the couch, the anger in his eyes when he yelled at me, and the sting of the cut are engraved in my memory. I’m the one who had to deal with this for five years, yethegets to forget.

“It actually happened,” I say, my voice shaking and barely more than a whisper, and it sends shockwaves through his body. I hear gasps of him trying to catch his breath, trying to breathe after getting hit by the truth.

“I’m sorry,” he squeaks, and then he opens the door and is gone.

I drop to the floor where I stand, pulling my knees into my chest, and cry.

I don’t know how long I stay like that before the door opens again.

“An—” Warren’s words stop the moment he spots me. “What happened?”

He’s beside me in a moment, arms wrapping around my shoulders and pulling me into his chest. I release my legs and wrap my arms around his waist. His hand runs through my hair and down my back in soothing strokes.

“You . . . went to . . . see my . . . dad,” I eventually get out as my tears slow and I finally start to catch my breath.

His hand freezes its movement at my words but quickly continues. In a soothing, apologetic voice, he says, “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I?—”

“Thank you,” I whisper and squeeze him tight. His body relaxes with my words.

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