this predicament I find myself in now with Scott and my lack of enthusiasm for work or anything in life.
I look into my dad’s blue-hazel eyes, which match my own, and the sparkle that is reserved for me is still there. Mum tells me he has had that since the day I was born, and it has never faded. I can’t lie to him. With my dad, the wall I have built over the past year comes crashing down. It’s not me, it’s not who I am. I’m not a guarded person, I’m more an open book. I wear my heart on my sleeve. The closed-off and reserved person I am becoming is starting to scare me. Under the covers of my bed, hiding from the world, is not where I want to spend the rest of my life.
‘I’m struggling, Dad.’ The words come out surprisingly calm. My dad’s face wrinkles, but his olive complexion, grey stubble and kind eyes make me feel safe and free from judgement. He puts an arm through mine and starts walking between the trees. My toes are grateful for the movement. The thoughts inside my head have been distracting me from how cold I have been getting. I take another sip of coffee and with the blood now pumping through my veins, my body is warming up again.
We’re walking in silence and I’m getting lost in the sherbet-pink-coloured clouds that are disappearing into the baby blue sky that is peeking through the canopy of oak.
‘I’m here to listen,’ is all my dad says and it’s all I need. I pull my attention away from the falling snowflakes, from watching them glide through the air and nestle on the blanket of snow below and I take a cool breath in. It’s the first time I’m going to speak out loud to someone other than Madi about what’s happened between Scott and I, and even though it’s my dad an unexpected terror washes over me. It’s unpleasant and not warranted. This is my dad, I tell myself, but the terror remains stubbornly in place.
Suddenly I’m scared that my dad might scold me for doing something wrong, or that he will give me a disappointed look for being a bad wife and not being strong enough to get over this whole ordeal. I feel like a failure; my shoulders droop as we walk. I want to run away, to throw my mug across the snowy path. The battle between conflicting thoughts in my brain is immense. A strange mix of emotions is stirring in the cauldron that has become my stomach, a dash of guilt, a drop of humiliation, a sprinkle of worthlessness and a splash of am I a terrible person if I open my mouth and speak badly of Scott? It’s all there and it’s all uncomfortable. Scott’s words were ‘It’s your fault.’ Would my dad think it was my fault too?
My dad squeezes my arm that is linked through his, as though to let me know it’s OK and with this small act of love, the floodgates open. I turn to him, heaving heavy sobs. My shoulders are moving up and down, my back is hunched over and my face buried in my dad’s thick, soft jacket. My knees are shaking, doing their best to hold me up while small cries escape my lips in intervals, between breathless gasps.
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