You Understand
As the doctor looks at me, as he says those words, it’s like he almost believes them himself. And somehow, that makes me believe them too. Even if just a little.
I am young. I know that. But I also know who I am. Who my father is. The family I was born into. The things I’ve seen. The choices I’m allowed to make… they’re limited.
Still, it gives me something to think about.
“If you’re all set, I’ll leave you now,” he says, standing.
“Yes. Thank you, Doctor.”
“Of course,” he replies with a kind nod as he walks out the door.
The moment he steps out, I hear murmuring right outside. It’s faint, but distinct. And I know. I feel it. This was a setup. They sent the doctor in first to see how I was doing, to test the waters before they came in.
Because just a few moments later, the door creaks open again. And my father walks in.
His steps are slow, hesitant. Like he’s approaching something dangerous. He doesn’t rush to me. Doesn’t bolt forward like a father desperate to hold his daughter.
No. It’s as if he thinks he’s approaching a tiger, watching, calculating, trying to feel out the situation.
“Are you okay?” he asks, soft and unsure.
I nod.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he says.
I shake my head, and a tear escapes, just one. Then another. And then, I can’t stop them anymore. The words come out before I can stop them, quiet and full of pain.
“Why did you do that to me?”
“I’m so sorry,” he repeats, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, baby. If there’s something I regret… something I wish more than anything that I could undo… It’s that contract. Letting you marry into that family. That marriage… that’s what put you here. That’s what got you into this condition. It’s my fault..... I’m so sorry, baby.”
He’s closer now. He reaches for my hand. I pull mine away.
I’ve never seen my father cry. The Don of the Irish Mafia. But then… He does.
He cries.
Not loud sobs. Not the kind of broken-down weeping that fills a room. But the quiet, aching kind. His shoulders were trembling slightly, his head bowed. His eyes were glossy and red, blinking too much as if he could will the tears away. But they fall anyway.
And I stare. Because I have never, not once in my entire life.... seen my father cry.
Not when I broke my arm climbing that stupid tree. Not when I was ten and begged him to stay home for my birthday.
Not when he walked down the aisle, knowing he was going to ghost me after... Never.
He was always steel. Always composed. The Don. Untouchable. Powerful.
And yet here he is, looking more like a man than a king. A broken man. My father.
My lips tremble as I try to speak again, but the words get tangled in the pain pressing down on my chest.
“You left me,” I whisper finally, barely audible.
“I know,” he says, his voice hoarse.
“You left me...”
“I know, baby,” he repeats, “and I hate myself for it every single day.”
I look away, blinking at the ceiling, trying to push back the heat behind my eyes.
“You stopped answering my calls. You only picked up twice… and even then, it was like I was a stranger... like you just.... abandoned me....”
“I know,” he says again.
“It felt like… like the moment I married him, I stopped being your daughter.”
He breathes in sharply, like the truth cut deep. He doesn’t try to deny it.
“I didn’t know how to protect you once you left,” he finally says. “I thought I was doing what was best. I thought I was securing peace. And then… when I saw what you became…”
He covers his face with both hands.
“I don’t even know how to look at myself anymore.”
There’s a long silence between us.
My eyes drift back to him, and something tugs at my chest. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to scream and yell and push him away until he felt half of my pain.
But I look at him now and he’s already bleeding. Not from wounds I can see, but from guilt and shame that weigh heavier than anything else.
And I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know how to forgive him. But I don’t know how to hate him either.
He comes to comfort me, and I let him. But as he does, the words I’ve been choking on for years finally break free. Quiet at first… then louder. Sharper.
“It’s not just about the marriage,” I say.
He nods, slowly, like he understands. But I know he doesn’t.
“No… You don’t understand,” I say, pulling slightly away, meeting his eyes. “My entire life… I’ve never felt at home. Not with you. Not even when I was married. I’ve always felt like an outcast. Like someone people tolerated, kept around because they had to, not because they wanted to.”
His brows pull together, and his hand loosens around mine.
“What are you saying, baby?” he asks softly, trying to meet my gaze. “What are you trying to say?”
“You know what I’m saying,” I whisper, tears slipping down my cheeks. “You understand perfectly.”
He says nothing.
“I’ve always idolised you,” I continue, voice trembling. “I looked up to you like you were everything. I did everything to make you proud… because your love always felt so far away. Like it was real, but unreachable. Like a myth people whispered about, but no one ever touched.”
He blinks, stunned. “But I’ve been there your whole life…”
I shake my head.
“You were there, yes. But not with me. Not really.”
My voice grows quiet, bitter with memories.
“I was born into a family where my brothers blamed me for something I had no control over, for the death of a mother I never even got to meet. They hated me for it, and they never bothered to hide it.”
I swallow hard, trying to steady myself.
“And then there was you.”
He doesn’t move. Just listens.
“You gave me everything money could buy. But you withheld the one thing I needed the most… your love. You gave it in pieces. In conditions. I kept trying.... trying to be better, to be perfect, to make you proud. To earn what should’ve never needed earning.”
My throat tightens.
“I didn’t want to get married. But I did it. For you... I walked into that house, into that family, and I took everything thrown at me. Every insult. Every wound. Every lonely night. Because I didn’t want to disappoint you. Because I thought… if I did this one last thing, maybe you’d finally… love me the way I always needed you to.”
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