“What?” I asked.
“We both know this wasn’t an accident, Love.” His smile didn’t falter one bit. He wasn’t mad, or pointing fingers. He was stating the facts. Saying things as they were. My sadness morphed into anger, rage spreading inside me like a tumor.
“You think I did this on purpose?” I spat. How could he think this low of me? How could he think me so evil I’d want to ruin my sister’s big night?
Daddy was usually on my side.
He was the only one on my side.
“Okay, let’s put it this way,” he rephrased. “Do you think maybe… it’s possible that you tripped without meaning to, but you also didn’t try to hold yourself back as much as you could’ve?” He arched an eyebrow at me, and I blinked at him in what I wish I could say was confusion, but a buried, unassumed part of me read him crystal clear.
“No.” I muttered as I ripped out grass that was still wet from the rain, leaving bald spots at my feet.
“You’re saying there’s not even a minuscule chance that I might be right? Not even this small?” He pinched two fingers together to illustrate his question, and I half-smiled.
But no smile could’ve ever eased my guilt.
Because he was right.
Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t like I’d plannedto spill my drink on her and operation “wreck the dress” was premeditated, but when my foot had gotten caught in the carpet and the opportunity presented itself…
I’d made the split-second decision to take it.
Maybe, subconsciously, I wanted her dress ruined.
Wanted her to feel the way I did on a daily basis.
Damaged.
Shabby.
In need of fixing.
I could’ve denied it, but I’d never lied to my papa before, and I sure wasn’t about to start now.
“Maybe just this small.” I’d mimicked his pinching gesture, and he’d nodded at my admission, his thumb sweeping the tears off my cheek gently.
“Aveena, love.” He sighed. “You know Mommy loves you, right?”
It’s the way he said it.
Like he was trying to convince me that Santa was real, which, at seven years old, I knew he wasn’t. Some tool named Chad had been more than happy to burst my bubble at recess.
He was right, in a sad, disappointing way. Mommy did love me… but like she would a fake Picasso painting she bought on sale and hung up on her wall.
She was really excited about it, at first.
Until she could afford to buy the real thing. Never got around to taking down the first painting, though.
Now, it was just… there.
Collecting dust.
“Are you going to tell her?” I cut to the chase. “That it wasn’t an accident?”
Dad sucked in a breath. “I should. This is not the person I want you to be, Aveena. You will never be happy, never be at peace holding so much resentment inyour heart.” He’d tapped the left side of my chest where a cavity filled with black goo would one day appear if I wasn’t careful. “But no, I won’t tell her.”
I’d blinked at him in shock.