He opened his eyes and dropped his hand, then looked at me with that hard stare I’d seen him use in business deals when he was going for the jugular.

“I’m not ashamed of you. This situation, however, has humiliated me. I’m not going to lie about that.”

I lowered my eyes and ran my hands over the upholstery of my seat, picking at it nervously. I’d spoken up for myself—finally. But it didn’t feel as freeing as it had with my mom.

“If I could change that, I would. But I’ve been going through a pretty rough period in my life, and I had no one to turn to.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry you couldn’t get a hold of me. As for your mother—”

“She came to the condo last month. Just showed up out of the blue, sitting in my front room with her boy toy, asking me for money, drunk off her ass.” I wiped my wet cheeks with the back of my trembling hand.

He nodded, swallowing, apparently too overwrought to talk. We sat there in silence before he cleared his throat. “Has she bothered you since then?”

I pressed my lips together and shook my head, certain he wouldn’t be pleased with the news I was about to give him. “I cut her out of my life, Dad. I had to. I told her I would block her texts and calls. It’s a long story, but if she shows up again, I’ll get a restraining order.”

He took a deep breath and let it out. “That doesn’t make me happy, April. But it’s not your fault that it came to this. You were right to do it. I just…I hope someday you can forgive. Her…and me.”

I couldn’t say anything in response. My face lowered and the tears came faster, and I had no idea what to say even if I could even talk. Everything just felt so raw and sore. Every breath stabbed me a little deeper.

When I’d stood up to my mom, it had been easier. Jordan had believed in me—he’d told me I had the courage to do what I needed to do. To cut her out of my life. He certainly could talk a good talk when he wasn’t the one in the line of fire. The enormity of the loss of him felt like a hole ripped in my chest. I almost couldn’t breathe.

Dad sat quietly for a long stretch, staring out the window.

I cleared my throat to speak again. “I—I’m sorry you’re hurt. I’m sorry you’re humiliated. But your feelings are not more important than mine. And I’ve learned that lesson. That I need to speak up for myself.”

He didn’t react for a minute, then looked at me with wary eyes. “Are you going to cut me out too? Like you did with your mother?”

“No.”

His face slackened with relief and that reaction did something to me—showed me that he did care. He blinked quickly and then looked away, and I could tell that he was trying not to break down. Seeing my normally stoic dad showing even a hint of emotion cut deep—soul deep. But underneath all that pain was a spark of hope, a glimmer of happiness. My dad loved me enough to break down at the thought of my never wanting to speak to him again. And until this moment, I’d never known that.

He quickly took control of his emotions, though, clearing his throat a few times and sniffing before turning back to the wheel. “We should—uh—Rebekah will be wondering where we are.”

He started the car and I leaned against the window, closing my eyes. I tried not to think about this day, tried to close my mind off to the hurt and humiliation. Tried not to envision those faces all staring at me in shock and disgust as I stood on the stairs, fully exposed. It was like a combination of all the worst naked dreams I’d ever had increased exponentially. It was hard to breathe and the occasional tear spilled over onto my cheek through my closed eyes.

A half hour into the drive home, as I faded in and out of consciousness, emotionally exhausted, I felt my dad’s hand close over my own where it sat on the console between us. My fingers grasped his and clamped on for dear life. His hold tightened on mine. It was the smallest gesture, but in that moment, we’d communicated more than we had in years.

We arrived at my dad’s place after dinner, and Rebekah was getting the kids ready for bed while I gathered up my stuff from my overnight stay and prepared to leave. She’d seen my face—blotchy skin and swollen eyes—but hadn’t asked questions. But as I packed up, she wandered into the guest room with some containers.

“I packed some dinner for you. There’s enough for a few days. I know you like my vegetable frittata.”

I sniffed and took her offering, tucking it alongside my bag. “Thanks.”

“Are you okay?”