Fatherhood, Too Late Chapter 2

Mark, you honored your debt, but you used my daughter’s life to do it!

I didn’t push the door open. Instead, I went to the hospital alone. Ella had always been afraid of the dark, and I couldn’t bear to leave her in that cold morgue.

The next day, on the way to the crematorium, my phone was crammed with Mark’s missed calls and texts. I ignored them. Clutching Ella’s urn, I contacted relatives and friends one by one to inform them of her death. After a full day of somber arrangements, I returned to our rental apartment.

Mark sat alone in a chair, his designer suit replaced with cheap clothes. Seeing me, he rushed forward, taking my hand. “Why weren’t you home last night? Your phone was off. I rushed back the moment my business trip ended, didn’t even stop to eat.” His voice was soft, laced with gentle concern.

I looked at Mark, feeling only a profound absurdity. His acting was good, but the expensive women’s perfume clinging to him was jarringly out of place in our dilapidated apartment. “I spent the night with our daughter.” My voice was flat, emotionless. I turned to go to my room.

Mark sensed my coldness. He wrapped his arms around my waist, whispering, “Eve, don’t be angry. I’ve been busy with work trips lately; I know I’ve neglected you and Ella. But aren’t I working so hard to give you a better life?”

I stiffened, forcing my head up, fighting back the tears. Working hard? His “work” was throwing a graduation party for his comrade’s son. The scent of her perfume on him made my stomach churn. I struggled fiercely, trying to break free. But Mark wouldn’t let go. Ignoring my resistance, he carried me to the bed, pouring his sweat into the act, as if to physically prove his love for me.

“Eve, I’ll make it up to you and Ella. I promise.”

His words, like a knife, shredded my last defense. Tears finally poured down my face. Ella was dead. What could he possibly make up for? I pushed him away with all my strength. “Go to sleep. I’m not in the mood.”

Mark, met with my resistance, inexplicably grew agitated. He got up, made a phone call, and slammed the door as he left. I lay limply on the bed, watching him go, tears streaming down my face as I stared at the leaking, peeling ceiling. A strange sense of relief washed over me. For eighteen years, for this family, for Mark, I had spun like a top, tireless. Now, it was time to stop.