Page 4 of I'm sorry, Princess
My father straightens his tie like nothing happened, as if the chaos is just background noise. His expression switches, like flicking on a mask.
“Hi, honey,” he says, casual, like he’s greeting me at breakfast. He presses a cold kiss to my cheek. His cologne clings to me, suffocating.
“Did we wake you?” He smiles, but his eyes are dead. “Your mother was clumsy and shattered one of the glasses. A shame. It was a nice pair.”
Gosh.
My mother is still standing there, her eyes locked onto his, seething. Her hands are shaking, but she holds her head high. She doesn’t even glance at me. No “good morning,” no “I’m sorry you heard this.” Just a scoff, sharp as a knife, and she turns her back on both of us.
I watch her walk away, her silhouette stiff, her steps echoing down the hallway.
The pain in my chest presses harder. My throat closes.
She doesn’t look at me. She never really does.
And somehow, that hurts more than all the shattered glass on the floor.
“Don’t mind her, honey,” my father says, his voice smooth, detached, as if my mother’s breakdown was just another Monday morning inconvenience. He pours himself a glass of wine, at 9 a.m. The irony burns in my throat, but I don’t say a word. “She’s probably having one of her episodes. I’ll call her doctor to adjust her meds.”
Her meds.
That’s how they always explain her away. Meds. Mental health. Postpartum. PTSD. Whatever label makes it easier for him to wash his hands of her. Of us.
Once upon a time, my mother was someone.
When she lived in London, she was the Lauren Ashworth, the forensic psychologist who cracked a case that saved the Crown’s reputation. A national hero, praised in headlines, envied by her colleagues. But then she met my father. Or maybe I should say, he chose her. A one-night stand, a few cocktails, and then she found out she was pregnant with me. He asked her to move to New York, told her he’d take care of everything. And he did.
He took her life, her career, her spark.
She worked from home for a while, still chasing justice from behind her laptop, still chasing the woman she used to be. But once she gave birth to me, that woman died too. Or maybe she killed her herself, the moment she looked in the mirror and realized she couldn’t go back.
They say she had postpartum depression, PTSD from her old cases, but sometimes I wonder if I’m the real diagnosis.
Maybe I was the trauma.
I went into forensic psychology for her.
Not because I loved it, but because I loved her, or at least, I wanted her to love me.
Maybe if I became the daughter she dreamed of, I could replace what she lost. Maybe I could be the cure.
But you can’t heal someone who refuses to see you.
“I have a meeting in ten,” my father mutters, checking his Rolex, already halfway out the door. His voice is brisk, like he’s scheduling a haircut. “Family dinner at seven. John told me some good news.”
He winks at me.
My father leaves, and the house falls into its usual hollow silence. I imagine my mother is locked in her room, crying into her designer sheets. But I won’t go to her. I don’t do that anymore.
When I was ten, I tried.
I made her a painting, a stupid, childish sketch of the two of us holding hands, smiling. I was so proud of it. I thought it would fix everything, glue the cracks back together. I gave it to her like a peace offering.
She tore it into four pieces.
I counted them.
Then she looked me straight in the eyes and said:
