lose you.”
“Like you were afraid of losing Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Because you needed her? To take care of you? To be your nurse?”
It was cruel and I knew it, but I was glad I had said it. I needed to know the truth.
“No,” he replied. “I loved your mother, and I loved you too. I couldn’t imagine my life without you. I didn’t want to be left behind. I didn’t want you to leave me.”
I rested an elbow on the chair and watched him for a few seconds. Memories flooded my mind—climbing onto his lap when I was very small and turning the pages of a book so that he could read to me. Riding around the house on his motorized chair, laughing. Later, when I was older, I talked to him about my swim classes and the parties I went to. I shared everything with him, and he listened with fascination.
Even then, I had understood that I was his window into a world he could no longer experience. It gave me purpose and filled me with a sense of value that never compared to anything else I ever did in my life. No one loved me like he did. I knew how much I meant to him . . . how important I was to him. I represented the life he couldn’t live for himself. I was his entire world.
“I know you loved me, Dad,” I softly said. “And I loved that you needed me. You made me feel so important. But didn’t you ever once want to give something back to me? To put my happiness before your own? I was only eighteen when Mom died, and I had to take her place, keeping your spirits up, becoming your sole reason to live. It was a tremendous responsibility for me then, and I can’t lie—it still is. I’m thirty years old, and I’ve never been able to maintain a long-term relationship with anyone because my whole existence revolves around making sure that you’re okay, that you’re not going to give up and let yourself die. Mom worked so hard at that, trying to make you feel happy every day, and now I understand where her fears were coming from.” I hated saying these things to him, and my voice shook as I spoke. “Because you told her that you would die if she left you.”
His voice went quiet with defeat. “Where did you hear that?”
It all came tumbling out. “I met a man in Italy named Francesco. He was Anton’s driver and closest friend. He was Mom’s friend, too, and he drove her to the hospital in Montepulciano after you were taken away in the ambulance.” I paused. “Please tell me the truth, Dad. Would you really have given up? Or were you just trying to guilt Mom into staying with you?”
He swallowed hard and offered no reply.
“Mom thought you didn’t want to have children, and then you ended up with a kid who wasn’t even yours. Talk to me, Dad. Tell me that you didn’t just want us to take care of you. Or that you weren’t trying to punish Mom or punish Anton by keeping me away from him.”
“I did love her,” Dad said again. “But she didn’t love me, not the way she loved him. She never loved me like that. And there were days I hated her for it, and I blamed her for what happened to me. It was her idea to go to Tuscany in the first place, and if she hadn’t had the affair . . . if she hadn’t sneaked out and gone to the villa that night . . .” He paused and squeezed his eyes shut. “What happened to me was her fault. There were days I wished I’d never met her.”
Recognizing the anger that still burned in him, I sat back and waited for him to collect himself and continue.
“And I hated Anton more than I ever hated anyone. No one believed me when I said he ran me down on purpose. Not even your mother. Especially her, which only twisted the knife. They said it was an accident . . . maybe it was . . . either way, I still blame him. And yes, I did want to keep you away from him to get back at him. There’s a part of me that’s glad he’s dead. There. You wanted me to be honest, so I’ve said it. I’m not proud of it, but there it is.”
“Dad .