Page 101 of If I Loved You Less
I must go. So I do.
* * *
When I return home, my eyes are puffy, my nose running. Papa unlocks the door for me, and as I step inside, I can see him assessing the situation, taking in the fact that I have clearly been crying.
He opens his mouth, as if to say something, then stops. Silently, he retreats back to his office.
Another sob rises within me, and I rush up to my room, closing the door before collapsing on my bed. I curl into a ball, letting my tears soak the pillows, pressing my hands against my heart as if I can contain this.
After some time, I hear soft knocking on my door. Papa slowly opens the door, coming in. I sit up, facing him.
“I won’t bother you,” he says, setting a plate of cut up fruit on my side table. He moves to leave, reaching the doorway.
“Papa, won’t you sit with me?” I ask quietly. He stops, then nods.
He sits down at the edge of my bed, looking around. I do not know what to say, but I want him here with me. I listen to the sound of his breathing, watching the wrinkles in his hands fold as he taps his fingers together.
“Shall I read to you?” Papa finally says. I nod. It is precisely what I want.
When I was a little girl, I loved when Papa read to me. It was his duty to take Naadia and I to the library, as well. He was never fond of reading – he thinks literature is nonsensical and lies – but he took us every other week without fail.
“What’s this?” Papa asks, picking up the book on my side table. It’sThe Secret History. Clearing his throat, Papa begins reading, tripping over some of the words. He stops, catching his breath.
“This is notBears in the Nightnow is it?” he asks, smiling. I giggle. “You would beg me to read it to you every night.” I recall the memories, lying under my ballerina quilt with Papa beside me, listening to his voice.
“It was my favorite,” I say, rubbing my nose.
“You know, I rather think I still have that book memorized,” Papa says, settingThe Secret Historydown and clearing his throat. “In bed, out of bed ... to the window, out the window...” he recites from memory, managing to recall most of it, then making up the parts he does not.
I laugh.
Papa smiles, then stands. “Try to eat some fruit,” he says. “Your vitamin levels are shockingly low.”
“It runs in the family,” I say. “You ought to eat some, too.”
He snags a strawberry, then leaves. A weight is lifted off my chest.
Papa and I will be alright. But as Papa reaches the door, he pauses, then looks at me. “You must know you are irreplaceable to me,” he says, face sincere.
My lower lip trembles, tears threatening to overcome me once more. “You have been so distant,” I say quietly. “It felt like you didn’t need me anymore, and thus did not love me any longer.”
“Silly girl. I willalwayslove you, even when I do not need you,” Papa says, voice steady. “I didn't mean to be distant. I realized that I do depend on you too much and wanted to change that.”
“I don’t mind doing things for you, Papa,” I tell him. Those are the moments we get to spend together; we are not big on expressing emotions, but making him coffee or listening to his stories is how I show Papa I love him.
“I was trying to give you space,” Papa says.
“Well, I do not need that much space,” I tell him with a slight roll of my eyes.
“Good,” Papa says, a smile spreading across his face. “For I was getting tired of making my own coffee anyway.”
I laugh. “Doubly good, for my car needs an oil change.”
We do not apologize; we just act nice to each other until things are normal again. And this is normal.
After Papa is gone, I readThe Piper’s Son, the one with all of Fawad’s thoughts, and it makes me laugh and cry because so many of his notes are precisely what I was thinking.
He and I are so alike, we’resoalike, and he loves me, and I love him – and we cannot be together for the mess I have made of things with my meddling, the very mess he warned me about.
