Break of Day

17) Bittersweet

Anticipation made the week drag on. Already having packed for the break, I could not wait for Sunday when Mare and I would fly back to Texas for the break. Part of me wished that we could have one holiday with Dad—I know how much it would mean to him—, however, the other part of me needed to go back to Texas for a week and a half.

It was selfish of me, I knew that.

Nothing I could say could take away that fact. It was a purely selfish act. Even if I claimed I was doing it for Mare, who shrivelled when away from the sun for too long; or pretend it was for Allie, who wouldn't understand why I wasn't with her for the first holiday ever; even if I feigned it was for Mel, whose mother cared more for her job than her daughter and her father was gone too often for work or busy arguing to pay attention to the signs of his wife's affair. Underneath any one of the claims I could make, was the simple selfish reason of missing my friends.

I love my father and know how hard it must be for him to be alone for holidays. After his parents died, he had no family to celebrate with. Thankfully, he had Charlie and —according to Theodore— Dr. Coileán, but friends weren't the same as having your daughters on Christmas morning or being able to pass down your childhood traditions to them.

The last Christmas we had with Dad was when we were too young to care about the presents he bought, the food he cooked, the drive he took us one. He may have stolen Maria's dreams, her future by getting her pregnant, but she stole his family from him. She drew his dreams for him before carving them out of his heart and burning them.

My mother wanted the picture perfect like with a picture perfect family and a picture perfect career. She wanted to live carelessly, to be respected, to be free.

My father has always dreamed of having children. All he wanted was to be a good father. Nothing else had mattered to him as long as his children were happy and safe with him. Maria stole that from him when she loaded us into the car while he was at a mandatory work conference and drove us to Mimi's house when we were three.

When it comes to Maria, we have never had much choice but to follow her.

"How was school, kiddos?" Dad was still in uniform when I walked in, hanging my raincoat on the hook. As Mare came in behind me, he began to take off his vest, a lightness in his eyes that had been missing for the past week.

Pulling my bag back onto my shoulder, I moved towards the living room. "It was good. How was work, Dad?" Scents wafted past me, dancing through the air, leading me towards the kitchen. A dozen of smells curled through my senses, a familiar comfort to them as they tugged at long forgotten memories. "What are you making?" Turning around, I was greeted by my fathers luminous smile highlighting the wrinkles that had formed on his face. Looking at him now, the time had begun to show in the lines on his face, etching the story of his joyous days, of days spent scouring over papers at work, of concern for his daughters. His crow's feet spoke of laughter and the faint creases in his cheeks told of a man who had given smiles like they were wishes.

The man before me looked much older than he should have. Stress having aged him ten years in the nearly four years since I last saw him.

He was older than my mother who, being only a few years his younger, might have had smoother skin than my sister, devoid of the worry lines creased between her brows. My sister was like our father in that regard, always thinking. It was one of the things that would make me smile: those little habits they shared. The little divot between their brows when concentrating; the way they ran their hands through their hair when there was something they could quite figure out; the way they squint their eyes seconds before laughing; they even had the same smile: wide and drowning their entire face with joy; the slight curve to their shoulders when they laughed.

Which habits do I share with them?

Do I smile like my father or laugh like my sister? Could people see them in the way I gesture when I talk or the way I lean forward when I'm excited?

"Some fish," he shrugged, stepping out of the kitchen for a moment to take off his overshirt. Leaving him in his regular black shortsleeve.

Pulling the lid off the pot on the cooled stove, I gasped. "Did you make Grandpa's lemongrass fish? I'm pretty sure this is his Thai basil quinoa." Peeking under the towel of the glass bowl on the counter, I grinned, "This is his green papaya salad." With a suspicious glance, I turned to my father. "You only make Grandpa's Thai dishes on special occasions? Is Nya visiting?"

Dad's sister had moved back in with Grandpa after Grandma died almost two decades but after he died near abouts ten years ago, she moved back to Massachusetts with her husband. She calls on every holiday and sends the best gifts — Mare and I were overjoyed when she learned how to skype—, but we have only seen her once or twice. The last time was when Dad was in the hospital for a few weeks in early 2001. The doctor's never figured out why his heart rate kept rising when he was sitting and dropping dangerously low when walking.

"Sorry to disappoint," he apologised as the oven announced the timer's end. Grabbing an oven mit, he slid the fish onto the stove. "Aranya is coming down until Graduation, but I do have some exciting news." The hope in his eyes shone brightly as he set the mit down. "Your mother called and a storm had the airport down. So they'll be stuck in Italy for Christmas. Which means I get you for Christmas."

Guilt gnawed at me for the heaviness in my stomach. Of course I was happy to be spending the holiday with Dad, but I had been looking forward to going back to Texas for a week.

"That's awesome, Dad," Mare smiled. "It's been forever since we had Christmas with you!"

I nodded, giving him a hug. "Oh my gosh, yay!"