Chase You

07; the epitome of a golden family

Another photograph was of Boxing Day in 2008. It was of me lighting a firework, with mum in the background dressed in her pyjamas and treading barefoot on the grass looking all panicked. I let out a tiny snicker as the memory flashed in my mind. The picture was taken at the perfect moment, and I looked at it longer than all the other ones.

I flipped the page over and caught my eyes upon an envelope. It was sealed, and on the front, I saw this:

Jennifer Hopper
Flat 2.A.
31 Brooke Street,
Portswade,
Sheffield
SJ3 6PQ

My curiosity definitely peaked, because on the top left, was my dad's name and our home address. It seemed like a letter to my mother that Dad never sent. I took a photo on my phone of mum's address before ripping open the flap and taking out the letter that was inside it, as well as a £2,000 cheque to my mum. I slipped the cheque back inside the envelope and unfolded the letter, seeing Dad's handwriting.

Jennifer,

I hope you're getting along well. Please take this cheque and take care of yourself. I've been devastated about your leaving, and I'm sure I've just been tormenting poor Flynn with the poor outcome. I've been a mess, I'll admit that, and it's making me into a terrible father.

I can't stop thinking about you. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't even talk to anybody at work. Memories of you, flashes of that time you shut the door in my face; they keep haunting me. Slowly, they turn into nightmares, and I wake up at random times during my sleep and wish you were with me.

I know it's not going to happen anytime soon, It was your choice to leave, I can't keep you on house arrest. I haven't told Flynn the reason for your leaving, after all, it's your story to tell, not mine. I don't want to break it to our son. He's already stressed choosing his sixth form choices, and did you know that the headmaster had told him that he's well on his way to the university of Cambridge? He's a clever boy, very independent and he just reminds me so much of you. I'm sure he's hurting, after all, he's certainly not the type of person to talk about feelings and emotions, which is why I can't ask him how he feels about all of this.

I forgive you. I love you. Please don't just read this and not write back. Please contact Flynn too, he doesn't deserve this.

Lots of love and hugs,
Pete.

However long I spent in my room, crying waterfalls of tears, was unknown to me. I just felt drained, upset and curious.

I wanted mum back for Christmas, I really did, and I wanted her to tell me about why she left.

I came to the realisation that love was a horrible bitch sometimes. It meant suffering quietly and tearing yourself apart secretly to not hurt the other person and it was something I've become accustomed to.

It's something dad has faced, because love didn't have to mean couple things. Dad loves me, and seeing him all torn up made me realise I loved him too. A couple months after mum's exit, he wouldn't show his face to me because I knew what to expect.

Puffy eyes, rugged clothing, messy hair- I couldn't bear to see that. He knew it. I knew it. We all knew it. Even the neighbours.

I've felt it too, in high school. That's a story for another time, however.

I stared at the piece of paper in front of me for the longest time, I wan't crying anymore, no, my eyes were getting dry from staring too long. I was in shock, I was rendered speechless. Had dad just forgotten to send this off? Or did he decide not to in the end?