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Jessica's home, the place I have been living in for one and a half years, exudes an old-fashioned creative chaos, where every nook and cranny bearing witness to her unapologetically unconventional personality. From the vivid artwork adorning the walls to the assortment of offbeat decorations, her space felt like a vibrant rebellion against the mundane.
There were antique treasures everywhere, like old books and delicate flowers in vintage vases. The walls had old paintings that told stories, making the whole place feel artistic and special. It wasn't just a house; it was a comforting sanctuary made with love and care, with warm colors and a mix of different furnishings that made you feel right at home.
Even though this house had been closed up for a long time, Jess worked hard to bring it back to life for us to live in. She was the one who came up with the idea and made it happen. She cared about keeping the old feel of the place, and you could see it in every piece she picked out. She wanted to make sure the history of the house stayed alive.
She really loved this house. It was where her parents used to live, and she never thought about changing how it looked. The old-fashioned style wasn't just for looks; it was her way of showing love for her mom and dad. When she was in the house, it felt like her parents were still there, hugging her and being with her, like a warm memory that never faded away.
Amidst this intriguing chaos, I found myself nestled on a well-worn sofa, immersed in the pages of that crime novel. Nearby, Jessica orchestrated the preparations for our impending celebration with meticulous care, arranging beer bottles and cans in a careful order that somehow seemed perfectly suited to her unique style.
She was busy mumbling something to herself, it's all about the shitty things she had done today. She always speaks out which she thinks will irritate her mind if she wouldn't talk about it.
The doorbell's unexpected chime pierced through the eclectic ambiance of our environment, stirring me from my literary reverie. The uncomforting look was clearly visible on my face, as the identity of our visitor required no guesswork.
With measured grace, I abandoned the comforting embrace of the sofa and ventured toward the door, swinging it open to reveal the expected man. He was a middle-aged man, wearing a warming smile on his lips.
In his hands, he cradled a modestly sized parcel, wrapped in nondescript brown paper, and an impressive bouquet of white roses. The bouquet was a work of art, each pristine rose a symbol of purity and reconciliation. The parcel, though simple in appearance, was Pandora's box - its contents unknown, its potential to either mend or exacerbate wounds yet to be revealed.
I immediately recognized him, he was none other than one of my dad's assistants, who was working for him. He visits every year on my birthday, since my dad left us, with the same brown colored paper box and a bouquet of white roses. He is a constant reminder of that man, whom I think was better if he wasn't my dad.
"Happy Birthday, Miss Andrewson" he finally spoke, handing me the package and the bouquet.
In response to his kind salutation, I accepted the offerings with an amalgamation of gratitude and resignation. "Yeah...th...thanks a lot" I simply nodded, with my eyes glistened.
"These are from Mr. and Mrs. Andrewson," he added.
With a final goodbye with my glistening eyes, I closed the door and placed the package on the table beside me.
The brown cover of the gift holds a small tag with the branding name "EDWARD ANDREWSON" printed on it in golden letters. On the other side of the tag was a small note, which I left unread because I knew that the note contained none other than some fake birthday wishes.
I tore the cover of the gift and found that it contained an expensive pack of Swiss chocolates, and a set of some expensive branded accessories, which I think were useless to me.
Jessica looked at me with a puzzled expression as I continued to unpack the parcel. "Emily, seriously, why don't you ever touch any of the things your dad sends you? They're really beautiful gifts, you know?"
I sighed, feeling the weight of the unspoken emotions that lingered between my father and me. "Jessica, it's not about the gifts. I appreciate the effort, but they don't change anything."
"But, Emily, he's trying to connect with you. He cares about you," Jessica insisted.
I paused for a moment, my fingers tracing the edges of a beautifully wrapped box. "You don't understand, Jess. It's not just about these gifts. It's about the scars that never healed, the void that was never filled. I can't pretend everything is okay just because he sends me gifts once a year."
Jessica looked concerned, her brow furrowed. "I know your relationship with your dad has been tough, but people change. Maybe he's trying to make amends."
I shook my head, the memories of abandonment and heartache flooding back. "He left me alone, Jessica. He chose another family over me. These gifts won't erase the years of loneliness and resentment that ruined my complete childhood,"
"I get it, Emily. But forgiveness is a powerful thing. Holding onto the past won't make you happy. Maybe giving him a chance could change things. Maybe one day, things will change," Jessica urged.
I managed a faint smile, appreciating Jessica's concern. "Maybe. Or may not be,"
After a moment of pure silence, I picked up the pack of chocolates, gave it to Jessica, and asked her to serve them to the guests. Then, with a solemn determination, I turned and proceeded to a storage room where I deposited the parcel on a high shelf.
The gift box remained a testament to the intricate complexity of my relationship with my father, a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil that swirled within. It was a representation of the relentless struggle to bridge the chasm between us, while never fully embracing the vulnerability that could heal our fractured bond.
As I reached for the bouquet of pristine white roses, a surge of anger and frustration bubbled within me. The beautiful flowers, a token of my father's attempt to bridge the emotional gap, felt like a cruel reminder of the shattered past. Without a second thought, I headed towards the dustbin, ready to discard the flowers.
But as I stood there, clutching the bouquet over the open bin, a sudden realization struck me. Tossing these roses into the trash wouldn't change anything. It wouldn't make my father understand the depth of my pain, and it certainly wouldn't mend the broken pieces of my heart. The beauty of the roses seemed incongruent with the ugliness of my past, yet, throwing them away wouldn't alter the reality of my strained relationship with my father.
I hesitated, my fingers tightening around the stems of the flowers. With a resigned sigh, I lowered the bouquet back onto the table. The delicate fragrance of the white roses lingered in the air, a reminder of the complexities that surrounded my emotions. Keeping them on the table felt like a reluctant acceptance, a silent acknowledgment that the wounds of the past couldn't be erased by a single, even though beautiful gesture.
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𝗔𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿'𝘀 𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲𝘀(𝗔/𝗡): Secrets are unraveling, and the plot thickens. Any theories on what's happening? Drop them in the comments! I can't wait to see your interpretations.
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