Page 72 of Tell Me I'm Enough

“What does that mean?”

She tries to lift a full trash bag that probably weighs a ton, and it doesn’t budge.

I walk around the couch to her and move her hands, take the bag, and set it near the door with all the others that need to be taken out.

“Spill.”

She shakes her head a little. “No, it’s nothing bad. I mean, my mom loves me…and I think my dad does too.”

“You think?” I ask, hating how her voice sounds small, saying that.

“Yeah,” she shrugs. “I mean, he’s around. He loves me how he knows how to, providing and giving me a home with a mom and dad in it who are together and don’t really argue too much…well, he doesn’t ever argue at least; my mom candefinitelyget feisty.”

“So it’s genetic?” I tease.

She glares at me as she fights back a smile. “I don’t know, though,” she continues. “I just don’t really feel…close to him. Like he’s been there my entire life, but I can’t tell you a singlereal conversation we’ve ever had. Most of what I know about my dad comes from my mom telling me stories he’s told her, or ones she just knows about him. He’s really quiet and passive, so we’ve never had any deep or impactful moments together as father and daughter. I think I tell him I love him more than he tells me. I’m also an only child, so maybe I just notice it more. But I wish we were closer. I wish I could go to him for advice, or he cared to check in on how I was doing, or cared about who I was with and how they were treating me.”

My heart hurts for her. I mean, get in line with the daddy issues, you know? But still, I don’t like knowing she didn’t have a man showing her love growing up, showing her how she’s supposed to be treated. I’m sure it’s a lot different for girls with their dads. I don’t have any sisters, so I’ve never really seen how different a relationship with your dad affects a girl, but it’s gotta be tough, especially when I can tell in her tone that she wishes they had that kind of relationship.

I feel like every girl’s first love is their dad…but their first heartbreak shouldn’t be them too.

We shouldn’t be longing for our parents’ love like this. It’s not how it’s supposed to be.

“You’re an only child?” I ask, trying to keep her mind from the heavier stuff.

“Yeah, I always begged for siblings, specifically a little sister, but my mom couldn’t have any more kids. I always say my best friend, Lydia, is the sister I always wanted. What about you? Any siblings?”

“Yeah,” I tell her, smiling just thinking about them. “Twin half-brothers who are five.”

She stops what she’s doing and coos. “Oh my goodness, how cute.”

“They are cute…just like me,” I say, grinning.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says, waving me off. “You have enough girls around here boosting your head up, you don’t need me doing it.”

“I miss them, though. Especially since being away at college.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this. “I basically raised them since they were born; my dad and stepmom are always busy or traveling.”

“Aren’t you like…rich enough for Nannies?”

I let out a little laugh. “Yeah…but my dad said it would show me responsibility or some shit. He also loved them a lot more than he ever loved me, so he didn’t trust many people with them when they were little. He was always paranoid for anyone else to watch them. I think he just wanted to find another way to break me down, though, and keep me from having a life. Kinda backfired, though. I love them like they’re mine, and now I hate being away from them, especially knowing they don’t get the attention they need when I’m not there.”

“Does your mom have any kind of relationship with them?” she asks, and it’s so innocent, I can’t be mad at it.

It does hurt to think about all that she’s missed out on since she’s been gone, though, but I tuck those feelings away right now.

“Um, no. She passed away when I was thirteen, and my dad remarried quickly after. She never got to meet them.”

I take a second to picture my mom with Asher and Easton. She’d absolutely adore them if she were here. It makes me smile a little imagining that sight.

Simone’s face falls. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” I tell her, trying to keep it upbeat. “The fun rich boy comes from a fucked up broken family.” I shrug. “At least it gave me a good personality.”

She studies me for a moment. “You joke… but I really am sorry. Your life sounds—”

“Sad?” I interrupt. “Pathetic? Lame?”

“No,” she says quickly. “Youarenoneof those things. I was going to say…hard, and a lot to deal with. You would never know. You hide it well.”