Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 95816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95816 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 479(@200wpm)___ 383(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
I had noticed the uniqueness of her hazel eyes. Unlike some that were a mix of greens and browns, hers were more blue and green—just like mine. In fact, most people who met me thought my eyes were one color or the other. It depended on my mood and the lighting. Heather’s were similar, and I thought that was cool. She was obviously crazy about her dad, talking about him a lot when we were together. I felt a small ache as I wondered what it would be like to know that sort of love.
I had always been curious about my dad. When I was a little girl, I imagined him showing up, sweeping me into his arms, calling me his princess. I could take him to school with me on parents’ day. Proudly introduce him as my dad. I didn’t care what he did—that never mattered. What mattered was I would be like the other kids and have a dad. Even the kid with divorced parents usually had a mom and a dad.
I only ever knew my mom. We had no other family. She never spoke about him when I was little. When I was somewhat older and asked, she informed me he would never be part of my life. He never wanted children, and he lived on the other side of the country. She told me he wasn’t a nice man, and she didn’t want me to be subjected to him. I asked her what that meant, and she had smiled sadly.
“Some people are selfish and only think of themselves. Your father was like that,” she said. “He wasn’t a good man. He would have been terrible to you.”
“Then why did you love him?” I asked her with the curiosity of a child.
She looked startled at my question. “What?”
“Tracy in class says when two people love each other, they have babies. I used to be a baby, so you must have loved him.”
She shook her head. “Sometimes it doesn’t work that way.”
Then she stood. “Your father isn’t part of our life. It is better that way. I don’t want to discuss him again. He didn’t want either of us.”
Later that day was the first time I saw her, looking sad and resigned, holding the shirt. The one with the fancy embroidery on the sleeve. When she left the room, I opened the drawer and took it out. It was soft and white—the loops and swirls on the sleeve fascinated me. I had no idea what they meant, but I liked them. When my mother found me with the shirt, she scolded me for touching it.
“Is it yours, Mommy?”
“No. It–it was your father’s.”
“Can I have it?”
“No.” She sent me to my room, refusing to discuss it.
I had looked for the shirt again, but it was gone. I searched for it, never discovering it, and finally gave up on the hunt. Gradually, the memory faded from my mind. My curiosity about my father grew dimmer, and eventually, I stopped asking. My mom and I were close, and it didn’t matter as much as I grew older. When my mom died, and I found the shirt tucked away in a box, I had stared at it for a long time, then brought it home and put it in my drawer along with her journals and some old pictures. Nothing in any of her pictures or journals hinted at who he could be, although her journals only started when she was about four months pregnant with me. She talked about moving to Ontario, her hopes and dreams. Her fears. The excitement of impending motherhood. The worry of starting her own business and juggling both. Her plans for the future. But not once in all the notes and memories did she reference him. My register of birth didn’t list my father when I had looked it up after she died. By then, I assumed it was an affair gone bad, and at the stage of my life I was in, I stopped looking and I no longer cared.
Or, at least, I thought I didn’t.
A knock at the door brought me out of my musings, and I shook my head to clear it of the odd thoughts. Tonight wasn’t about me or my past. It was about spending time with Luc and being part of his world.
I opened the door, meeting Luc’s appreciative look. He lifted his eyebrows and whistled under his breath. “Whoa. Ashley, love, you look amazing.”
Laughing, I reached out and tugged him into the hall, shutting the door behind him. I admired his deep blue suit, set off with a white shirt and a jaunty tie. It framed his wide shoulders and lean torso and highlighted the muscles that rippled and tightened as he moved. His brown hair curled around his ears, and his heavy eyebrows set off his rich blue eyes. His face was long and lean with high cheekbones, and his scruff shadowed his sharp jawline. He was tall, which, for me, was a bonus. Even when I was in heels, he stood over me, making me feel feminine.