Chapter 8: Forgiveness or Disaster

“I gave it to Mom.” I spread my arms to shield her. “You’re not allowed to bully Mom.” My voice shook but I stood my ground.

Mom said, “Don’t yell at the child.” Her voice was soft but firm.

Dad looked at Mom, then at me, his expression cooling as he closed the door. The final click of the latch felt ominous.

He was so strange. I watched him, trying to understand if he cared, or if he’d just given up.

We treated him like this, and he didn’t get angry? It was unsettling—his calm almost scarier than his anger.

I thought maybe Dad wasn’t hopeless—maybe it wasn’t just Mom who needed to change, but Dad too. Maybe, if he could just see what he was doing, things could get better.

I used my allowance to have Nanny Linda buy lots of books: ‘How to Be a Good Husband’, ‘Busy Dad, Good Dad’, ‘9 Rules for Being a Good Husband’… I stacked them in the study, the covers shiny and new.

I put them all in the study, waited by the door, and when Dad came in, I pulled him to the study. My hand shook in his, but I refused to let go.

He was surprised. His eyebrows shot up in genuine confusion.

I hadn’t spoken to him for a while, let alone taken his hand. For a second, I saw the old Dad—the one who’d carry me on his shoulders through the park.

He softened, picked me up, and went into the study. He sat me on his lap, just like he used to.

Then he saw the stack of books. He blinked, then let out a small laugh.

He couldn’t help but laugh. A real laugh, not the forced ones from before.

He kissed my forehead. “Did you buy these, or did Mom? Is it because Dad isn’t good?” His voice was gentle, almost hopeful.

My eyes turned red, all my grievances flooding out. Tears ran down my cheeks, hot and fast.

Dad was at a loss, hurriedly wiping my tears. He cupped my face, panic in his eyes.

Then, he apologized:

“Sorry, Abby. I’m sorry. It’s Dad’s fault. I shouldn’t have ignored you and Mom.” He squeezed me so tight I could barely breathe, his voice cracking on every word.

He seriously read those books, tried to be a good dad, and tried to explain things to Mom:

“Bella was born after Angela was assaulted. She’s not well and can’t take care of Bella, and she doesn’t want to see her, so she left her with the nanny. Bella is pitiful and insecure, so I pretended to be her dad.”

Mom softened, but still stood her ground. Her eyes were sharp, unyielding.

“You could have told me, not kept it from me and let me find out myself. Bella is pitiful, but her misfortune wasn’t caused by me. And you let Abby see all this—it hurt her.”

Dad didn’t say anything, his expression complicated. He just said, “Mm.”

“It won’t happen again. I won’t hide anything from you.”

They were getting better—as if things were returning to normal. I dared to hope, just a little.

But when things get too good, disaster follows. It was as if fate itself refused to let us be happy.

Not long after, Angela returned from the hospital. Dad paced the floor all morning, waiting for the phone to ring.

Dad went to pick her up personally. He wore his best shirt, his face carefully neutral.

She was smiling one moment, but the instant she saw Mom, her expression changed. The tension in the air was electric, sharp as a snapped wire.

“Scott Miller is what to you? Are you his sister? Let me go—I don’t want to live under the same roof as a rapist’s sister!” Her words rang out, harsh and final. The room went silent, the world tilting on its axis.

No one moved. Dad’s face went white as paper. I realized then—our story was about to get a new villain.