Page 44 of His to Protect
I took a shuddering breath. It physically hurt.
“He died nine months ago. You want to know the worst part?” I looked at her. “I felt relieved. Relieved that Emma could finally stop trying to earn love from someone who was never going to give it to her.”
Tears streamed down Mireya's face. She didn’t try to offer any words of comfort. She just listened, lending me her ears, and bearing witness to my pain.
“He left everything to me. His house in Connecticut. His investment portfolio. His entire estate. Like money could somehow make up for it. As if inheritance replaces being an actual father and money fixes the damage of a child spending her entire life wondering why her dad couldn’t love her.”
My voice broke completely. “I don’t want his house or his money. I don’t want any of it. Taking it feels like saying what he did was okay and the way he treated Emma was acceptable.
“Emma still asks about him sometimes. Still tries to remember the good moments that probably never existed. And I let her. Because she deserves to remember him however she needs to.” I swallowed hard. “But I remember the truth. I remember every single time he made her feel unwanted. Every letter he ignored. Every time she asked if Daddy was coming home and I had to make up another excuse."
I looked at Mireya through blurred vision.
"So when August Cross showed up today demanding I claim my inheritance, deal with the estate, take responsibility for his legacy... all I can think about is Emma."
My voice dropped to a whisper.
“And don’t even get me started on August. He’s my uncle but I never felt like it. And worse, I look exactly like them. Same face. Same eyes. Sometimes I catch myself in the mirror and I see him... I wonder if I'm doing the same thing without realizing it. If I'm making Emma feel like she's not enough. Or if I'm repeating the same damage he did.”
“You’re not,” Mireya said. Her voice was thick. “You’re nothing like them. Nothing like him.”
"How can you possibly know that?"
"Because Emma loves you without any doubt or reservation. You know how I know that?" She stepped closer. "Because I watch her face light up every single time you come home. I watch her save her funny stories specifically for you. I watch her check the time to see when you'll be back."
Her voice broke.“That’s not what kids do with parental figures who make them feel unwanted.”
I couldn't speak around the lump in my throat.
“Your father blamed Emma for your mother’s death and you spent your entire childhood making sure Emma never felt blamed again. That’s not the same thing. That’s not even remotely close.”
She reached out and touched my arm gently.
“You became the parent your father refused to be. And Emma knows that. She’s always known that.”
My throat felt so constricted I could barely breathe.
“You’re allowed to be angry at him,” Mireya said softly. “You’re allowed to not want his money.” She squeezed my arm. “And you’re allowed to look like him without being like him. Because you're not. You never were.”
I looked down at her hand on my forearm, warmth spreading through me. It was… familiar, yet different.
Comforting in a way I'd never experienced.
“I’ve never told anyone that,” I admitted. “About Emma, the letters, or how he made her feel.”
“I’m glad you told me.”
We stood in the quiet hallway, city lights casting soft shadows through the windows. Her hand still rested on my arm. I covered it with mine, drawing strength from the contact.
"Thank you," I said. "For listening. For understanding."
"Anytime, Riven. I mean that."
She squeezed once more before letting go and stepping back toward her room.
I cleared my throat. “Goodnight, Mireya.”
“Goodnight, Riven.”
