as if he were chewing on the words he couldn’t quite say. “This…this isn’t what you should be working for,” he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. The frustration in his eyes was palpable, but so was something else—fear, perhaps, or regret.
I wanted to argue, to demand why he couldn’t just be proud of me, why he couldn’t see the value in what I had achieved. But words failed me, lost in the haze of hurt and disappointment. Instead, I sat across from him, the kitchen table a vast, unbridgeable chasm between us.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. It was the same silence that had enveloped our house since my mother passed away, a silence filled with unspoken grief and unresolved anger. I thought of all the nights I had come home late, quietly so as not to disturb him, and how he had never asked how my day was or if I needed anything.
You know,” I started, hesitantly, “I didn’t do all this just for me. Mom always said—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted sharply, his eyes flashing with an emotion I couldn’t quite decipher. “Don’t bring her into this.”
“But she believed in me,” I insisted, my voice rising. “She wanted this for me. She wanted you to want this for me.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw the shadow of a man who once loved fiercely and lived fully. Yet, what remained now was a shell, hollowed out by loss and bitterness. “I’m trying, Sophie,” he said finally, his voice cracking. “But it’s hard.”
The admission hung in the air, raw and unexpected. It softened something in me, though the hurt was still too fresh, too deep. I realized then that while my trophy could be replaced, the years of strained silence and unvoiced pain between us could not be so easily mended.
“I know it’s hard,” I said, my voice gentle but firm. “But I’m not giving up on us. I want us to be okay again, to talk. Can we try?”
He nodded slowly, a glimmer of hope breaking through the hardness of his gaze. “Yeah, maybe we can. It’ll take time, though.”
His words were a tentative offering, and though it wasn’t a promise of immediate reconciliation, it was a start. It was something to hold onto, a fragile thread of connection in the vast sea of our shared grief.
As I went to my room that night, I passed by the remnants of my trophy, scattered and gleaming under the dim hallway light. I knelt down, gathering the pieces in my hands, feeling their sharp edges bite into my skin.
