Page 19 of Poetry of Flowers

I deserved an answer why I never had the same amount of love from my father, my brother always received. Anger is not the right word. I’m not angry at my father, I just want to know why I’m not as important as my brother to him. Maybe it’s because I look like my mother, I remembered how he couldn’t look into my eyes the first few months after she died.

“Matilda-.”

“Tillie,” I corrected him and he nods.

“Tillie, I’m an alcoholic, I tried to ignore the fact, I tried to believe it would go away some day when I’m happier again. But I will never be happier if I don’t do something now. I am … I need to … for the both of you and for myself. I thought about it for a long time, but your brother just answered an unanswered question, unintentionally.”

Tears covered his cheeks as he sobbed in front of me. I felt bad for not knowing if it were to show me that he truly meant it, or if it was a form of manipulation to not make me pull out the old memories again. It could be either.

“I apologize for all the pain and all the responsibilities I heaped on you, you were- you are far too young for that.”

Don’t say it’s okay. It’s not okay, you cried yourself to sleep, you had to grow up while you were still a child.

“I’m sorry too, I’m sorry for myself, and I won’t feel bad for admitting that,” I choked out. I would not cry. I’m going to be the smart person in this situation.

“You shouldn’t feel sorry for that, you’re my little girl, I always wanted the best for you, and I ruined it. I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.”

“Please, stop apologizing, Dad. I don’t want pity, you would know I hate pity from other people, if you knew me.” Swallowing the lump in my throat, I stood up on shaky legs.

“Find a solution, and it will be okay, but just saying it won’t change anything. You have to do something.” I’m proud of myself because my voice sounds steady and bigger than his. I’m the tallest person in the room, but I’m unsure if I enjoy it.

“Then you have to find a solution for your mental health, you can’t tell me that and then ignore your own problems, Tillie.”

Now he was making this about me?

No, he has no right to do that. Not now.

“I don’t have a problem!”

My voice was louder than I expected it to be.

“You have a problem; you’re surviving every day, but you’re not living.”

“There is no difference!”

“There is, and it’s one of the biggest differences I know. You’re sick, you survive for the people around you, but you need to live for yourself. I want you to live again, Tillie.”

“Stop!” I yelled at him as I turned around, ready to run up to my room. Jeez, I just want to bury myself under my sheets and everyone should just stop, stop, stop!

“I’m going on a thirty-day rehab program, it can take longer if it doesn’t work on the first try. Remy will stay with your aunt Cecily, I let you decide if you need the time here alone or if you want to go stay with her too. You’re seventeen, she will check on you once a day, but I think you need time to concentrate on yourself.”

Stopping in the doorway, I turn back around to face my father.

“When are you going?”

“Tomorrow,” he answered, his voice dry and his eyes hard. He was back to the person I knew. Sometimes he cried just to make me feel bad. He was not the father I remembered from back when I was a happy child.

He had changed after Mom died.

I heard that alcohol can change people’s entire personality, so I still had hope that he could become his old self again. If he was going to be the man, I once knew, without the influence of liquor.

“Okay, but how are you going to pay the bills for this house, do I have to quit school to start earning?”

His eyes darkened, and he looked at me with anger. “Jesus, Tillie no, do you honestly think I wouldn’t have thought of that? I asked Patrick for help, and he agreed. He will come up for all the bills and give you money each week for food if you decide to stay here. After that, we decide what’s going to happen, maybe we’ll sell the house and settle down somewhere smaller. This house is only pain.”

His voice broke at the last sentence.

In his defense, my question had been pretty mean. It just slipped out sometimes because I was tired. God, I was so tired.

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