Unsteady (COMPLETED)

TWELVE

Then - Michael

A red blush forms over her cheeks. "You can't say that, Mike." She whispers before turning away. 

"Why not?" I ask and she just shakes her head. "I don't understand why I can't, Ella."

"Just don't say things like that when you're drunk." She says simply, still looking away. 

"I'm not drunk," I say and she looks at me pointedly. "And even if I was, it wouldn't matter. I mean what I say."

"I know better than anyone that conversations like this while one person has been drinking," She says raising an eyebrow. "Are pointless. You won't remember this in the morning or you will say you only said it because you were drinking or you will be embarrassed. All of those scenarios end with me getting hurt. So don't say things like that when you are drunk." 

"Ella, I mean it-"

"I gotta go. Happy birthday, Mike." She says quickly as she looks at me, waiting for me to move. 

Instead of replying, I nod my head and move to another branch, letting her climb down and escape inside her little house. 

Unlike previous nights, she doesn't turn to look back at me with a little smile on her face. She doesn't wave at me before closing the door, either. She just walks inside, her head down, and lets the door slam behind her. 

I groan. "Fuck," I mutter to myself as I begin the climb down the tree. For the first time since meeting Ella, I feel worse leaving the tree than climbing up it. I fucked up. I would be lying if I said I didn't just say that because I was drinking - I definitely did. 

I trek over to my house and enter through my backdoor. Mom is lying asleep on the couch, a bottle tipped over on the floor beside her and another bottle unopened in her hands. She is gripping onto a letter with all her might. Without looking at it, I know what that letter is.

Linda, 

Losing Andrew was probably one of the hardest things we have ever gone through and it wrecked us. It wrecked who we are as people and who we are as a couple. You are drunk ninety per cent of the time and I am not much better. It's too much. 

You and Mike are constant reminders of what we lost and I can't do it anymore. I'm leaving. I'm sorry to do this by a letter instead of your face, but I can never catch you sober anymore. 

I am sorry to be a disappointment to you and Mike. I am sorry we lost our little boy. And I am sorry that I am not man enough to stick around and make things better.

Tell Mike I love him and I am sorry we won't be going to Canada's Wonderland like I promised. 

I will love you always,

Tom

That letter is the only thing I remember about my father. His pictures have long since been taken down and tossed in the trash like a piece of garbage. His memory has faded into nothing as the years passed. He's just gone, not to be seen ever again.