There it was.
Not, Why?
Not, Can we talk?
What will people think?
“Tell them the truth.”
“What truth?”
“That I’m not comfortable having Yolanda at my wedding.”
“After everything she has done for you?”
I laughed once.
Couldn’t help it.
Dad’s tone sharpened.
“That’s disrespectful.”
“No, Dad. What’s disrespectful is pretending the last twenty years didn’t happen.”
“You always exaggerate the past.”
I closed my eyes.
“I was a child who learned not to laugh too loudly in your house.”
“Marisa—”
“She told me I was selfish for wanting time with you.”
“You’re remembering things through a child’s emotions.”
“She threw my birthday gift away in front of people.”
Dad said nothing.
“You told me I was lying.”
“That isn’t exactly what I said.”
“It is exactly what you said.”
His breathing changed.
I kept going.
“You promised me a car. Yolanda wanted something else, and suddenly the promise disappeared. You promised college help, and when she objected, that changed too.”
“You went to a good school.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“Then what is?”
“The point is I spent my whole childhood watching you promise me things only until Yolanda was uncomfortable.”
My voice trembled.
For once, I let it.
“I learned to be invisible in your house so your marriage would be easier.”
There was a long silence.
Cars moved around me.
A shopping cart rattled across the asphalt.
Then Dad’s voice softened.
“I didn’t know you felt that way.”
“Yes, you did.”
He inhaled.
“No. I knew you two didn’t get along.”
“I told you.”
“You were young.”
“Mom told you.”
Silence.
“You didn’t want to know.”
That was the sentence that reached him.
When Dad spoke again, the anger was gone.
“I failed you.”
I leaned against my car.
My eyes filled unexpectedly.
I had imagined those words for years.
They did not repair anything.
They simply made me tired.
“I don’t know how I let things get that far,” he said.
“I do.”
“How?”
“You kept choosing the explanation that made your life easiest.”
He did not argue.
“I’m sorry.”
I stared through the windshield.
“I don’t know if I can forgive you right now.”
“I understand.”
“I need time.”
“Okay.”
For the next few weeks, he tried.
He called to ask about the ceremony.
Wanted to know whether we needed help with flowers.
Asked what song we chose.
He even offered to contribute toward catering.
I answered carefully.
Part of me wanted to believe a door had opened.
Maybe he really would come without Yolanda.
Maybe for once he would stand beside his daughter even if his wife disliked it.
The night before the wedding, my phone rang.
Dad.
I smiled before answering.
That still hurts to remember.
“Hey.”
“Marisa.”
His voice was hard.
My smile disappeared.
“What happened?”
“Yolanda had chest pain.”
I stood from the bed.
“What?”
“We spent part of the evening having her checked out.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s upset.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“She’s under tremendous stress.”
I felt the old pattern assembling itself.
“Dad…”