Page 134 of What if It's Us

Marlee rolls her eyes but doesn’t erase it.

I’ve never beenin a prison waiting room before.

Hell, I’ve never been inside a prison before.

The cold plastic chairs are uncomfortable as fuck. The afternoon light filters through the scratched glass of the windows as I sit stiffly with my arms crossed tightly over my chest. My jaw hurts because I’ve been clenching it for the past fifteen minutes.

I don’t want to be here, but I know deep down in my soul that if I don’t make peace in one way or another, the memory of my father and what he did will eat at me for the rest of my God-givenlife. And I sure as hell don’t want this weight on my shoulders when my children are born.

The dark gray door a few feet away is buzzed open and an older man in orange is shuffled through. His hair a grayer than I remember from my childhood, his eyes sunken but sharp. I swallow at the thought that I would recognize him anywhere because looking at him is like looking at a much older version of myself.

My father.

Fuck.

I look just like him.

He sits down across from me without so much as a word. A long silence looms between us. Long enough that I begin to wonder if he even knows who I am. Then finally he speaks.

“You’re taller than I imagined.”

I scoff, my eyes flicking away. “You’re smaller than I remember.”

The corner of his mouth turns up and I hear a tiny laugh. “Fair.”

Shifting in this ridiculous chair, I lower my arms to the small round table where we’re seated and stare into his eyes. They’re a greenish brown color.

Of course.

Just like mine.

Maybe I’m more like him than I thought.

“Look, I’m not here to bond, okay? I’m here because I need to hear you say it once and for all. You killed my mother. I need you to say the words.”

He flinches. Not dramatically, but I notice the slight wince in the corner of his eyes.

“Is that what you were told?”

More than once for my entire childhood.

“Yes.”

My father bows his head momentarily and then looks up and asks, “And you never looked into it? You never asked anyone about it?”

“Why would I?” I shrug, annoyed. “When a kid hears over and over again from one foster family after another that his father was a monster who killed his mother and didn’t want his kid…” I scoff, shaking my head. “Let’s just say doing any kind of research wasn’t at the top of my one hundred things to do before I die list.”

“So that’s why I’ve never heard from you.”

I notice he’s not asking me that question but merely stating it for his own comprehension.

“I guess I could say the same thing.”

“I didn’t…” He breathes, choosing his next words, and when he meets my eyes again, his are glistening. “Ledger, I wasn’t some monster who killed your mother in a fit of rage. And if that’s what you’ve been led to believe all these years…” He shakes his head. “Well, fuck. I’m sorry for that.”

My heart pounds in my chest.

That’s exactly what I was led to believe.

---