Heart to Hart ✔️

8. Always on my mind

Alec dropped me outside my house a few minutes before nine-thirty that night. I carefully shut the front door behind me and shuffled into the lounge. My parents watched some historical drama my mother loved; my dad in his armchair and Mum on the furthest point of the three-seater sofa.

Mum peered over her reading glasses, her eyes glued to the screen while her hands worked overtime on her newest knitting project. How she could focus on the stitches and keep up with her TV program, I will never know. It was a talent I had never attained.

I perched on the seat beside her and we sat in silence for a good fifteen minutes before either of them paid me any attention.

"Your dad ordered a Chinese takeaway tonight, so there are some leftovers in the kitchen."

"Thanks, Mum. I'm starving. I've hardly eaten a thing today."

"If you had any decency, you would have rung us to say you wouldn't be home in time for dinner," my father grumbled. He sat back in his chair, his hands resting on his slightly pudgy stomach.

My scalp prickled with guilt. I knew better. I should have called home. "Sorry, Dad. I got distracted. I told Mum I'd be out today."

"Don't blame your mother! Hanging around that Hart boy again? I saw his car pull up out front," he barked, his narrowed glare direct at the TV.

"What's wrong with Alec? He's a lovely boy from a nice family and training to be a doctor. I could think of worse people to spend my time with," I answered, gobsmacked. He had known Alec and his family for years, and his comment was totally out of the blue. Even my choice in friends was wrong in his eyes.

"Don't you dare speak to me in that tone, missy! Don't think you can start swanning in here when you feel like it and treating this place like a hotel," he fumed, shaking his index finger in my direction. A huge line scored the middle of his forehead when his brows pulled together.

I saw red and had to calm down before my mouth caused me any more trouble.

Taking a deep breath in, I dug my nails into my palms, the acute pain soothed the ache in my chest. "Sorry, Dad," I mumbled.

"Speak up, girl!" He snapped back.

"Sorry, dad," I begrudgingly apologised, slightly louder.

"Why don't you get your food now, Natasha and then go straight to bed," my mother added, her voice flat.

My mouth twisted and I gripped the edge of the sofa, my gaze fixed on my feet. Empty. I felt empty inside.

I retreated to the kitchen to warm up my stir-fried rice and sweet and sour chicken in the microwave. My annoyance ebbed away but was replaced with dejection. My bottom lip trembled and tears threatened to overspill onto my cheeks. I angrily wiped them before they had a chance to fall.

Once my food heated through, I sat at the large oak table that occupied the centre of our kitchen and devoured the leftovers in record time.

Instead of placing my plate in the sink, as usual, I decided to wash it up and wipe down the already clean surfaces. There was no point aggravating my father further.

Mid wipe of the oak table, my mother walked in and stood behind me. She gingerly placed her hand on my back, causing me to still. We weren't the huggy, talk about your feelings type of family, more of the stiff upper lip kind. Well they were, I was always the weaker link in their eyes as I was 'too emotional' to quote my father.