Chapter 2: My Father's Face Changed When He Read the First Page
I had never heard my father sound like that.
His voice was still quiet, but something had changed beneath it. The cheerful warmth he'd carried through the front door was gone.
I stood halfway down the stairs, one hand gripping the railing and the other holding my notebook against my stomach.
Mom answered immediately.
"She's overtired. You know how sensitive she gets.""
Dad didn't reply.
I heard footsteps moving across the living room, followed by the scrape of a chair.
Then Madison spoke.
"Mom said Emily wasn't supposed to eat cake.""
Silence.
"Madison," Mom snapped, "go upstairs.""
"But—"
"Now.""
My sister's footsteps pounded toward the staircase.
I stepped back into the shadows before she could see me.
Dad spoke again.
"Why wasn't Emily supposed to eat cake?""
"Because this was Madison's party.""
"It was supposed to be both girls' party.""
"Oh, for heaven's sake, Daniel. Don't start. Emily had her birthday three days ago.""
"Did she have a cake?""
Another pause.
"That's not the point.""
"Did she have a cake, Diane?""
I had heard my father angry before, usually when someone at work had made an expensive mistake. But he had never spoken to Mom like that.
I crept down another step.
Mom lowered her voice.
"I gave her money. She chose to buy some ridiculous notebook instead. I'm not responsible for every little disappointment she manufactures.""
Dad's voice became very still.
"You gave our nine-year-old daughter money instead of celebrating her birthday?""
"She said she wanted a book.""
"I wanted a cake," I whispered.
Neither of them heard me.
I stepped off the stairs.
Dad was standing beside the dining table, still wearing his navy business suit. His suitcase sat near the front door. His tie hung loose around his collar, and his hair was flattened on one side from the flight.
The cake stood in the center of the table.
Half of it was gone.
Madison's friends had left, but dirty plates remained scattered across the table. Pink frosting smeared the tablecloth. A plastic crown lay beneath one chair.
Mom stood beside the sink, scraping leftover frosting into the garbage disposal.
Dad looked at the cake.
Then he looked at the empty chair near the hallway.
Finally, he saw me.
"Em?""
I tried to smile.
It was a terrible mistake.
The moment I saw his face, all the tears I'd been holding back spilled down my cheeks.
Dad crossed the room in three strides and knelt in front of me.
"Hey, sweetheart. What's wrong?""
I shook my head.
He gently took my hands.
"Did someone hurt you?""
"No.""
"Are you sick?""
I shook my head again.
"Then tell me. I'm listening.""
I looked over his shoulder.
Mom had stopped scraping the plates.
She was watching us with her jaw clenched.
"I just wanted a piece of birthday cake," I whispered.
Dad blinked.
For a moment, he seemed unable to understand the sentence.
"Birthday cake?""
I nodded.
"Everyone had some. Mom said it wasn't for me. I asked for just a little piece, but she said I was embarrassing her.""
Dad's fingers tightened around mine.
He looked toward the table.
Then toward Mom.
"Diane, is that true?""
She dropped the plate into the sink.
"You're making this into something it isn't. Emily had a tantrum because she didn't get special treatment.""
"I didn't have a tantrum," I said.
Mom's head snapped toward me.
"Excuse me?""
My voice disappeared.
Dad turned back to me.
"You don't have to be afraid to tell me what happened.""
I wanted to believe him.
I wanted to tell him everything.
About the nights Mom locked the pantry because I had supposedly eaten too much. About the school field trip she refused to sign permission for, then told Dad I'd chosen not to go. About the time she threw my drawing into the fireplace because Madison's painting had won a prize and mine hadn't.
But the words were too large for my mouth.
So I did something I had practiced in my head a hundred times.
I held out the notebook.
Dad looked at it.
"What's this?""
"My diary.""
"Can I read it?""
I nodded.
"Please don't let Mom take it.""
Something flickered across his face.
"Why would she take it?""
I stared at the floor.
"She said if I ever told you lies about her, she'd make sure you never believed me again.""
The kitchen seemed to grow colder.
Dad didn't move for several seconds.
Then he took the notebook with both hands.
"Emily," he said softly, "did Mom tell you that?""
I nodded.
He glanced toward the sink.
Mom's face had changed.
The confident expression she had worn all afternoon was gone. Her hand remained suspended above the dishwater, and her eyes were fixed on the little blue notebook.
"Daniel," she said, forcing a laugh, "it's a child's diary. You know how dramatic children can be.""
Dad opened the cover.
The first page contained my name and age.
*Emily Carter. Age 9.*
Below it, I had written a sentence in crooked letters.
If Dad ever reads this, please don't be mad at me.
Dad's eyebrows drew together.
He read the next line.
Then the next.
I watched his expression change.
At first, he looked confused.
Then his mouth tightened.
By the third page, his face had gone pale.
He turned another page.
His breathing changed.
"What is this?"" he whispered.
Mom stepped away from the sink.
"Give me that.""
Dad didn't look up.
"Diane, sit down.""
"I said give me that notebook.""
"And I said sit down.""
She stared at him as if she'd never heard him refuse her before.
Then she folded her arms.
"This is ridiculous. Emily writes down nonsense when she doesn't get her way. You're encouraging her.""
Dad turned another page.
I knew what he was reading.
August 7. Mom told Dad I spilled juice on the carpet. I didn't. Madison spilled it, but Mom said I had to take the blame because Madison had a bad day.
He turned the page again.
August 19. Mom took the money Grandma sent me for school supplies. She said Madison needed new shoes more than I needed notebooks. When I asked if I could have some money back, she said I was selfish.
Another page.
September 2. Mom told me not to tell Dad she makes me sleep in the laundry room when I'm bad. She said Dad would blame me for making him angry.
Dad stopped turning pages.
His thumb pressed against the paper so hard that the corner bent.
"Emily," he said, his voice rough, "how long has this been happening?""
I looked at Mom.
She took one step toward us.
"Don't answer that.""
Dad rose slowly to his feet.
"Don't you dare tell her not to answer me.""
Mom's eyes widened.
The notebook shook slightly in Dad's hands.
He read another entry aloud.
"September 11. Mom said Dad only loves me because he feels sorry for me. She said if I tell him about the laundry room, he'll send me away because nobody wants a bad little girl.""
His voice broke on the last words.
I had never seen my father cry.
I had never even seen him look close to crying.
But now he stood in the middle of our dining room with my notebook in his hands, staring at the words I'd written in secret.
He looked at me as if he were seeing something terrible that had been hidden right in front of him.
"Oh, sweetheart," he whispered.
I started crying harder.
"I'm sorry.""
Dad dropped the notebook onto the table and pulled me into his arms.
"No. No, Emily. You have nothing to apologize for.""
I pressed my face against his shoulder.
He smelled like airplane air, peppermint gum, and the familiar cedar cologne I had missed while he was away.
"I tried to be good," I sobbed.
"I tried really hard.""
His arms tightened around me.
"I know.""
"Mom says I'm difficult.""
"You're nine years old.""
"She says I make her life harder.""
Dad closed his eyes.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then he kissed the top of my head.
"You are not a burden. Do you hear me? Not to me. Not ever.""
Behind us, Mom let out a sharp breath.
"Daniel, you're making a huge mistake.""
Dad released me gently and turned toward her.
"How long have you been telling our daughter that nobody wants her?""
"I have never said that.""
"It's written here.""
"She's lying!""
Dad picked up the notebook again.
"Then explain this entry.""
He opened to a page near the middle.
*September 24. Mom made me stand outside in the rain because I broke a plate. I didn't break it.
She threw it because I forgot to bring Madison's sweater upstairs. Dad called while I was outside, and Mom told me to stay quiet. She said if I ruined her evening, she'd make sure I regretted it.*
Dad looked up.
"Was Emily outside in the rain?""
Mom's lips parted.
Then closed.
"That is not what happened.""
"What happened, Diane?""
"She was being disobedient.""
"She was nine years old!""
His shout made me flinch.
Dad immediately turned toward me.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart. I didn't mean to scare you.""
I clung to his sleeve.
Mom saw it.
And something ugly crossed her face.
"Look at what you're doing," she said.
"You're turning her against me. She's always been manipulative, and now you're rewarding her for it.""
Dad stared at her.
"She asked for a piece of cake.""
"And I said no!""
The words burst out of Mom before she could stop them.
For one second, nobody moved.
Then Dad asked the question that changed everything.
"Why?""
Mom opened her mouth.
No answer came.
"Why would you refuse a nine-year-old child a piece of cake at her own birthday celebration?""
"Because she doesn't deserve to be treated exactly like Madison!""
The room went silent.
I felt Dad's hand move protectively to my shoulder.
He stared at Mom as though he had never known her.
"What does that mean?""
Mom's eyes darted toward the notebook.
"She isn't—"
She stopped.
Dad took one step closer.
"She isn't what?""
Mom swallowed.
"She isn't Madison.""
Dad's expression hardened.
"No. She isn't. She's Emily. Your daughter.""
Mom laughed nervously and began gathering plates from the table.
"I've had enough of this. The party is over, the children are gone, and everyone is exhausted. We can discuss this tomorrow.""
She reached for the notebook.
Dad pulled it away.
"No.""
"Daniel, give it to me.""
"No.""
"You cannot let a nine-year-old's fantasies destroy our marriage.""
He looked at the notebook, then at me.
"I think the only thing destroying this family is what you've been doing when I wasn't here.""
Mom's face turned red.
She snatched her purse from the counter.
"Fine. Believe her. But don't come crying to me when she grows up and does the same thing to you that she's doing to me now.""
She headed for the front door.
Dad didn't follow her.
He simply held me against his side while she slammed the door so hard that the glass rattled in its frame.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Dad carried me to the sofa, sat beside me, and opened the notebook again.
"I need to understand everything," he said gently.
"Not because you're in trouble. Because I should have known.""
I wiped my nose on my sleeve.
"Are you mad at me?""
He looked at me with such sorrow that I almost wished I hadn't asked.
"Emily, I'm mad at myself for not seeing what was happening.""
He turned to the last few pages.
His face tightened again.
Then he stopped.
"What does this mean?""
He pointed to an entry I had written only two nights earlier.
October 16. Mom said Dad isn't really my father. She said he only took me in because he felt sorry for me, and if I keep causing trouble, he'll send me back where I came from.
Dad stared at the page.
May you like
Then he looked at me.
"Sweetheart," he whispered, "what exactly did your mother tell you about where you came from?""
