Heads nod around the circle, his words clearly hitting home for a lot of us. I feel the same way. I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t aware of the fact that I was a burden to my dad, an unwanted second girl child when he would have been happier with just Derrick.
“But I don’t want to carry that rock around in my gut anymore,” he says, standing up straighter. “So, Gram, I’m sorry. Please forgive me and…” He glances up. “I forgot the rest.”
“Thank you, I love you, goodbye,” I whisper.
“Thank you, I love you, goodbye,” he echoes, dropping his picture into the pit, too. As it catches fire, he lets out a shaky laugh before lifting his gaze to the group with a wide grin. “Wow. That felt good, fam. Like…really good. Seriously, that’s some kind of magic.”
“And it’s something you can repeat, over and over,” I add. “If you find those old feelings coming back up and you need a reminder of how good it feels to let go.” I scan the faces around the fire. “Who wants to go next?”
Sassy Sven lifts an arm. “Me. I’m so done with my ex.”
One by one, the players say their piece and toss their art into the flames until only Kyle and Ian are left.
Kyle is still standing there with his jaw clenched and his arms wrapped tightly around his torso, his body language practically shouting that he’s not ready for this, so I’m not surprised when Ian offers to go next.
“This is a guy from my old neighborhood where I grew up,” he says, holding up his drawing of my dad. “He was hard on some friends of mine, especially his daughter. She was this sweet, magical little kid. Super smart and talented and just…cool, you know? One of those younger siblings you don’t mind hanging out with you and your friends.”
He gets murmured responses from Braxton and Laser, but Sassy Sven is watching him with narrowed eyes that he shifts my way after a beat or two.
Say what you want about Sassy, but he’s no dummy.
Ian isn’t so much as glancing my direction, but Sven is already hot on this trail. I should probably try to redirect in some way but I’m too curious to hear what Ian will say next.
I’ve always known he liked me well enough, but I never knew he felt this way, that he thought I was “magical.” It’s a special thing to hear, especially considering I’ve always found him pretty magical, too. From the day we first met, when he gave me his colored pencils—a gift that felt like the answer to a prayer to a shattered little girl who had no idea why her dad was so mad all the time—I’ve suspected he might be part guardian angel.
“Anyway, that was my first experience with someone who was just plain mean to his kid sometimes, and it hit me pretty hard. One time, after he locked the little girl out of the house for hours on a cold day because he was pissed about some stupid thing, I asked my mom if we should report him to Child Protective Services. But she said no. That the little girl would probably end up somewhere even worse, and that if she stayed put, at least I could help watch out for her.”
He stretches his neck to one side and then the other, his gaze still fixed on the firepit. “But I’ve always wondered if that was the right call, especially after I got drafted out of the minors a couple years after graduation and moved to the city. She was only twelve and all alone in that house with him. Every time my friend and I stopped by to visit, she seemed quieter than the last time, like she was retreating into herself and…” He shrugs tightly. “That made me feel like shit. And it definitely got in my head. Every time I so much as think of this guy, I get pissed off and frustrated by how little control I have over most things in life.”
“But seems like the little girl turned out fine,” Sven says, with more compassion than I expected from him. “All’s well that ends well.”
I sniff discreetly and blink away the tears pressing at the backs of my eyes.
I want to tell Ian that I did turn out fine, that I am fine, but hearing someone else’s perspective on my dad suddenly puts all the stress of growing up in that house in a different perspective. I’ve always told myself that it wasn’t really that bad—Dad didn’t beat me, I never went to bed hungry, and he eventually got his drinking under control—but maybe it was worse than I’ve wanted to admit.
If I knew a little girl who got shut out of her house on a freezing cold day because she forgot to lock the door on her way to school that morning, would I still think it was just a family squabble?