His words mend wounds, and when my face crumples in sobs, I drop my head and he pulls me back against his chest. My body heaves as I release years and years of agony. I want to speak a thousand words, but I can’t stop crying. I can’t stop clinging. I simply can’t let go.
“Let me look at you again,” he says when he pulls back and dips his head down to my level.
He’s blurry colors and lines, and when I blink, he comes into clarity only to be dissolved all over again. Tears continue to flood and fall as he wipes my cheeks with his thumbs. My hands clutch to his sides, and I painfully weep. “I’ve missed you so much, Dad.”
“Oh, sweetheart, I’ve missed you even more. The pain of losing you . . . I feel it every second of every day.”
“Then why? Why didn’t you ever come for me?”
“Oh, princess,” he sighs, hanging his head. “I wanted to. So many times I wanted to.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Something inside me shifts, and all the pain and anger begins to rise through the enormous joy I feel from being in his arms. It collides and battles, and when he looks up at me, I take a step back and snap, “You just left me!”
Declan takes my hand as my father stares at me, drowning in visible shame.
“Darling . . .”
“I needed you,” I sling at him. “I’ve needed you since the day I lost you!”
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Why don’t we sit down and talk?”
I turn to Declan, shaking my head, and he encourages, “Nothing you say will be wrong. I won’t let you fall apart, okay?”
Leaning my head against his chest, he strokes my hair back and kisses my head before placing his hand on my back. “Let’s go sit.”
We walk over to the living room, and I take a seat next to my dad on the couch as Declan sits on the other side of me, extending his hand out to my dad, saying, “I’m Declan, by the way.”
My father shakes his hand, responding, “Asher.”
“That’s not your name,” I accuse, my voice still shuddering through consuming emotions as I look into his eyes. I try with everything I have to pull myself together, but I can’t stop the deluge of new tears that fall.
Declan places his hand on my leg, and my dad holds my two hands in his. I watch as he takes in a deep breath before saying, “I’m not sure what to say or where to begin. I never thought I’d ever be sitting next to you, looking into your eyes, holding your hands, hearing your voice.”
“You could’ve been. All these years, you could’ve had me. But instead, you left me to battle this world on my own.”
“You have to believe me when I tell you that’s the last thing I ever wanted to do.”
“But you did it anyway.”
He drops his head again, and I can see his eyes well up.
“I need you to tell me why,” I insist. “I need to know why you abandoned me.”
“I didn’t abandon you, sweetheart.”
He blinks and a couple tears skitter down his aged cheeks.
“You did!” I lash out, yanking my hands from his. “You’re here! Alive! And living a fucking lie!” I suck in a ragged breath, stand up, and pace across the room before crying out, “You have a whole family! I saw them! A son and a fucking daughter!” Gripping my head with my hands, I stand and face him. “You just . . . you just replaced me as if I never existed. As if I never even mattered.”
“No one could ever replace you,” he asserts, standing up and walking over to me.
“I’m just a forgotten nobody.”
“I’ve never forgotten you,” he says as he starts to unbutton the top of his dress shirt. “You’ve always been with me.”
As his collar and shirt begin to fall open, I see the ink of a tattoo, and when he exposes his chest, I stop breathing.
There, across the span of his chest, from shoulder to shoulder, is my name branded on his skin in large script.
“Even if I wanted to, I could never forget about you.”
I reach out and run my fingers over the letters of my name. “When did you . . . ?”
“Shortly after I was sent to prison. I had my cellmate do it.”
I press my hand to his chest and feel his heart beat into my palm.
“I don’t understand. They told me you died in there.”
He buttons his shirt back up, asking, “Will you let me explain?”
I nod and he holds my hand as we walk back over to the couch where Declan is still sitting. My father keeps my hand in his and Declan wraps his arm around my waist as I face my dad.
“They told you why I went to prison, right?”
“Gun trafficking.”
He nods. “Seven years into my sentence, the feds came to meet with me. It seems that one of the guns was used to assassinate four government officials from the United States Gun Trafficking Task Force while they were in Argentina to bust one of their bigger drug cartels,” he explains. “All the guns that went through me were inspected to ensure the serial numbers had been properly shaved off, but when you’re working with the street runners, mistakes are bound to happen. Anyway, the feds offered me a plea deal. I hand over the names in exchange for an immediate release. I knew the risk, but I would’ve walked through a firing squad to get you back,” he says fervently, and I strengthen my hold on his hand.