Page 9 of The Design of Goodbye
Over the last two years, we’d tried dozens of tricks to lock the kitchen faucet during the day so Thimble couldn’t nudge it on with his paw, but I’d come home to find him in a sink full of water and soaking wet hardwood floors dozens of times. The bathrooms were easier to keep him out of with special locks, but if we forgot to close a door, Thimble took it as approval to turn on the sink or bathtub.
“I think he’s getting sneakier,” I said.
“Let’s hope not,” said my dad as he handed me a plate. “I made a new recipe. Blue cheese lasagna.”
My dad’s other passion was cooking. He spent hours every week recreating recipes he found on his favorite food blog,Salt & Pepper.
“How was school?” he asked, pulling at a loose thread on his apron. The fabric matched his eyes perfectly—blue eyes I was incredibly jealous I hadn’t inherited. I also wished I’d inherited his brown hair and tanned skin. Then I wouldn’t be constantly reminded of what I’d lost.
“Terrible.”
He frowned—an all-too-familiar expression. “Why?”
“You know why,” I muttered.
“Tutoring?” At my lack of response, he added, “Your mom has taken a lot from you. I’m not going to have her take your dreams, too. And that starts with making sure you don’t fail your senior year.”
I thought of my dreams: getting accepted into Reed’s Fashion Institute and entering the Harbor Fashion Show. While my mom leaving had broken me, she hadn’t broken those. My dreams were too strong to break that easily.
...Right?
“I wish I could help you with math,” he continued, “but it’s been so long since I took any math classes I’d probably confuse you.”
I considered arguing—maybe if I was convincing enough, he’d hold off on the tutoring for a few more weeks—but I couldn’t do it. I was too scared to upset him. He didn’t need another reason to be disappointed in me. And, lately, it seemed I couldn’t stop disappointing him. I hated it.
For a few weeks after the letter, I’d read articles and snuck onto forums with the hope I’d get answers on why my mom had left me. I never did get any. I knew my mom had left because of me, but I was desperate to knowwhy. What had I done wrong? What did I need to change? If I had answers, maybe I could fix it. Then, maybe she’d come back to me. Or, at least, I’d know what not to do so my dad didn’t leave me too. I was constantly terrified he would. If my dad left me, I’d have nothing. I’d have no one.
So, all I said was “It’s okay.”
“How about you come upstairs?” he asked, hopeful. “Let’s play a game, for old times’ sake.”
We’d bonded over games when I was five. We’d started with Candy Land, moved on to Chutes and Ladders and then Scrabble. Anytime I’d won, he’d playfully mess up my hair and say “I’m so proud of you, Mads. So proud.” I’d never told him how much I loved it—that his reaction was so much better than the win itself.
By the time I was in high school, we had a closet filled with games. My mom had hated our closet because she’d believed games were a waste of precious time. She’d been obsessed with time. She’d rarely slept, rarely left the house, rarely left her sewing room because she hadn’t been able to handle wasted time not designing clothes.
For twelve years, Friday nights were mine and my dad’s. Until that day, in July, when everything changed. We’d played one game of Monopoly since that dare. I’d won. He’d smiled, but it hadn’t reached his eyes. Instead, his look had expressed the words he said to me that July night:I’m so disappointed in you, Madison. So disappointed.
I wasn’t strong enough to play games with him after that. I was terrified I’d get the same expression, and that was almost as devastating as the letter. Almost.
“I’m busy.”
His shoulders sagged. “I miss you, Mads.”
His words hurt because I wished I could believe them. I wished I could believe he wasn’t saying them because he was my dad and it was expected of him. Sometimes, I missed him more than my mom. Some days, it was harder to be around him because it was a constant reminder of what used to be.
Everything became blurry. “Can you please leave?”
After he left, I blinked and focused on my mom’s sewing table. The same table my mom and I’d spent countless hours working on. Now, the surface was empty because I hadn’t designed any clothes since she’d left.
Since I was twelve, I’d dreamed of designing wedding dresses. Having the privilege to design a bride’s wedding dress—somethingthey’ddreamed of their whole life—gave me full-body goose bumps. For two years, I filled binders with pictures of wedding dresses I’d ripped out of magazines or printed offline. Next to each dress, I added detailed notes on what I loved and what I’d change. I remembered sketching designs with my finger on my desk at school or even on my legs when no other surface was available. The inspiration had been incessant.
But then.
Then my mom crushed my dream in one single conversation.
She told me if I pursued a career as a wedding dress designer, I’d fail. My ideas were boring, generic, and underwhelming. She said every aspiring fashion designer wanted to design wedding dresses and to become one, my ideas needed to be stunning. Earth-shattering. Superior.
They weren’t.
