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Daddy.

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One day he says, “I am so tired,” and you nod. You say, “I’m sorry.” This is how it is; how it’s always been. He shakes his head and you apologise for being the cause of his stress. Neither of you are wrong. Neither of you are right. He says, “I don’t know what to do anymore. Are you happy?” You can’t say yes; and you don’t want to say no, just because you’re unhappy doesn’t mean you want him to go. He asks you, “does love even factor into this anymore?” And you think it must, it must, but all your problems revolve around something else - like arguing about undercooking the eggs; like getting jealous about their ex; like hurting them and not apologising; like always having to be right. He holds you gently one night, he says, “am I the one?” You think, “I want you to be. Fuck. Don’t you understand?” You say, “of course you are,” and you don’t return the question. You don’t know what you’ll do if he doesn’t say it back.

S.Z.

// Excerpt from a book I’ll never write

#240

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