The Album
SARAH
Ryan stands, quiet as always, and wordlessly hands me a small box. He doesn’t say a thing. Doesn’t even meet my eye. Then he turns and follows after Ronan, his footsteps like a shadow dissolving behind his brother’s.
And then it’s just me and my father. The room feels heavier now. Like something sacred was broken in here and not just by Ronan’s words, but by the truth they scraped against. I still have Ryan’s box in my hand, but for whatever reason, I’m not even curious to open it. I don’t care what’s inside.
Because what’s inside me is louder. Ronan’s voice echoes. Not about my father having a fascination with me.... no. I don’t believe that. I don’t want to believe that. He’s always been a good father. He’s never crossed a line. There’s nothing there.
But what I can’t shake is something else.
What if he really is going to keep me in this house forever?
Does that mean I’ll never find love?
Never know what it’s like to be in love?
To be kissed gently and held through the night?
To be desired, chosen, wanted?
I don’t know what it means to have sex. And yes, I know it sounds stupid, but I’ve read so many novels, I’ve dreamed of what it could feel like. To fall into something deep and real and all-consuming. And now… does this mean I’ll never experience any of it?
“Don’t mind him,” my father says suddenly.
His voice slices through my thoughts. I look up and find him staring off, his eyes not on me, but on something far away. And though he’s speaking calmly, there’s a storm of rage simmering behind his gaze. He’s furious. Of course he is. And yet somehow, so am I....
I laugh, hoping it doesn't sound awkward, to release the tension.
"Now, we cannot let Ronan ruin our night....I have a gift for you,” my father says, his voice lighter. He looks almost giddy as he steps away, walking toward the cabinet.
He opens it, takes out a box, and brings it to me.
"You already gave me a gift, Dad."
"I know," he says, smiling softly, “but I want you to have this.”
I glance down, slowly removing the wrapping. Inside is a jewellery box. My fingers brush against it, and something about the feel, the look, the way it rests in my hands… I know it. I feel it. My hand caresses it like it’s part of my story.
My father clears his throat.
“It belonged to your mother,” he says quietly. “That’s where she kept all her treasured jewellery.”
There’s something in his voice, a softness, a break, a memory lodged too deep that just shatters me. I feel the tears rising fast, thick and unstoppable. I feel so connected to her in this moment. So utterly close.
I open the box. Inside are necklaces, earrings, bracelets, all the jewels in the world, it seems. They glimmer under the light like they still carry the heat of her skin. I love them. They feel heavy. They feel expensive. But most of all… they feel important. Because I know my mother wore them once. She held them. She lived in them. My hand reaches for a pair of earrings, ones I recognise. I’ve seen them before. In a photograph. The one the beside my dad’s bedside table. She wore them.
And now I’m crying.
Of course I am. My dad is instantly beside me, arms around me, his hand gently rubbing my back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t know it would pain you so much to do this. Maybe I should’ve given it to you another day.”
“No,” I say quickly, touching his hand. “Thank you.”
And I mean it. I mean it with everything inside me.
Ever since I allowed myself to agree to the fact that I look a lot like my mother… ever since I stopped distancing myself from her, from the grief of her absence, from the idea of her, I’ve felt closer. Closer to her than I ever thought I could.
Even though I never got the chance to meet her.
After that, my father brings out something else. A worn, thick photo album. Her album. Their wedding album.
He opens it gently, like it’s something holy, and begins telling me about their wedding, how she walked down the aisle in soft lace, how her hands trembled but her eyes stayed strong. How he thought he would faint when he saw her. He laughs, softly, like the echo of a memory still clinging to his voice.
He shows me pictures of Ronan and Ryan when they were young, little boys with mischief in their eyes and scabbed knees. And then, of course, he turns the page and there’s me... not yet born, but there. My mother, pregnant, glowing in that soft maternal way, cradling her belly like it was the world.
But then the story stops. Because there are no pictures after the call to give birth. Because she never came back.
My father doesn’t say that part aloud. Instead, he skips gently past the silence and lands on the next part of the story ... my baby pictures. Me with Ronan. Me with Ryan. Me growing up, framed in every stage of life: my first birthday, my third, my tenth. Pigtails and missing teeth. My school uniform. Holding a stuffed animal. Laughing at something the camera didn’t catch.
Every birthday. Every year. He kept it all.
Before we even reach the end of the photos, something inside me just breaks. I wrap my arms around him and hug him tight, hard. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so safe. So real. So held.
So... like I belonged. Like I actually had someone.
And we’re both a mess, each of us trying to be strong for the other, failing wonderfully. His eyes are glassy. My throat is burning. I kiss his forehead, whisper
“Good night,” and leave him there with his glass of whiskey, not because I want to, but because if I stay any longer, we’ll both end up crying. And some part of me thinks he needs to cry alone.
I walk out of the study, but I don’t go back to my bedroom. Because I know there’s someone in there.
I walk quietly toward the garden, needing just a moment, just a breath of cold air to gather myself.
Before I face him again....
Log in with Google Account
Chapters
Favorite
Settings
