Page 90 of Flawed

I close my eyes and hit my head on the backseat. When my driver drops me at my place, I get in my car and take off.

The entire way to Tully's, all I can wonder is, how much more of this can I take?

16

Chanel

Six Months Later

"Why won't you tell me?"Zara borderline shouts.

I put my hands over my face and groan. "Zara, we aren't going over this again."

"It's my father. I have a right to know. Just tell me who he is," she demands.

It's the same fight we've had for the last few years. Everything between Zara and me was perfectly fine. She was a little girl who loved her mommy and never knew anything different. Then everything changed.

Zara came home from school and asked me why she didn't have a father.

I knew that day was coming. No matter how I tried to prepare for it, nothing I said to her stopped the questions.

I explained that sometimes mommies and daddies aren't meant to be together. And even though her daddy wasn't around, I loved her enough for both a mommy and daddy.

That only sparked more questions.

"Doesn't he want to see me?" she asked, her big green eyes widening with hurt.

My heart broke. I tugged her close and lied, "I'm sorry to tell you this, sweetie, but I can't discuss anything about your father. One day, when you're older, I'll tell you everything." As I said it, my stomach pitched.

What would I eventually tell her? She can't ever know the truth.

Since that day, she's been relentless. As soon as I think she's let it go, she brings it back up with more determination than ever to find out the details.

I can't say I blame her. But every time I give her the same excuse, it just feels worse and worse. And it's causing friction between us.

"I have a right to know!" she repeats, stomping her foot.

I point to her bare feet. "That isn't going to get you any answers."

"Mom!" she shouts, her face red with anger. "Tell me!"

I open the fridge and pull out a pan of leftover lasagna, ordering, "You can cut the attitude."

"Ugh! You're so mean!" she hurls at me.

"Whoa! What's going on?" My mother's voice interrupts as she enters the room. Sometimes I regret giving her the key to my place. She's always popping over. Most of the time, I don't care. Still, sometimes, I'd like to have an argument with my daughter without her interference—especially on this topic.

"What are you doing here?" I inquire.

She waves her hands. "I just wondered what you two are up to tonight."

Zara spins, and I brace myself for what's to come. She throws herself at my mother and cries, "My mom won't tell me who my dad is! Please make her tell me, Mamé!"

My mother wraps her arms around Zara and gives me herI told you soexpression. My parents have been wonderfully supportive, but they still want to know who Zara's father is, too.

"Zara, go do your homework," I command.

She looks up at my mother. "Mamé, can I stay with you and Papi for the weekend? Please!"

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