Our Sob Stories

“I had a dreamy childhood. And I don't mean to sound cocky, but I had a childhood most people would envy. A father who was present and loved being a father. A mother who loved me more than she loved herself. A house that was more than a home, but as I grew, it slowly became clear to me that it was all a… play. A play performed by my parents to shield their naive child from the bitterness going on when they said good night and locked themselves in their room.” 

His hand paused in my hair. “Actually, I'll say it was a play performed only by my mother.”

I looked up at him, my eyebrows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

He pulled me closer to his chest like I wasn't already glued completely to him, his hand reaching out to smooth the frown between my brows. 

“My father never tried to hide that he was a piece of shit. He did love being a father. Sometimes it pains me to think he might have loved me once. Which was worse? Being hated by him from the very beginning? Or being loved only for that love to take a three sixty?” 

I looked away from him and to the setting sun, the golden glow in the clouds, my chest tight. “I don’t know, boo. At least you experienced his love once. But… but I think that only made it hurt more when he hated you. If he had hated you from the start, then it would be something you might have gotten used to.”

He hummed. “As wise as you’re beautiful.”

I rolled my eyes, but a smile tugged at my lips. “Oh, please. Go on. I want to hear more of your sob story.”

“Right.” He cleared his throat. “He was abusive. Verbally. A manipulative son of a bitch. He had always said we would be nothing without him. He always said it with a smile and honey on his lips, so we never felt the sting of those words. I grew up and saw through his manipulative bullshit. I saw what my mother endured for years. Alone.”

“Did you ever blame yourself?”

“Sometimes, I do. There were signs, but my mother performed so well; nobody could see through her acts. Even my father. He thought she was happy with him, content. And maybe she was for a while. But the act blew when I started playing hockey. I did it as an excuse to leave the house, to not sit at the dining table and pretend we were still the happy family I thought we once were. And I did well in hockey. He saw my potential even before I did, saw that I could make a career out of it, and it threatened him. He didn't want his little boy to be something without him. He didn't want his son to be a man who no longer needed him. And so he did everything to make sure I failed.” 

His arms tightened slightly around me, and I felt them tremble just a bit. I raised my hand and placed it on his arm, caressing the skin with my thumb, and his grip loosened. Just a bit, but it still meant something.

He went on, his voice thicker now, almost harsh. 

“And I did everything to prove to him that I could be so much more without having to kiss his ass. That I could be a man without his support. My mother saw it as well. She saw that she didn't have to endure his bullshit anymore. And the more I grew, and the more she saw we could have a life without him, the more threatened he became. The more… unhinged.” He released a breath. “I think that's enough sob story for one day.” 

I nodded. “Agreed.”

We said we wanted to know each other, and we did, but so far we hadn't shared a happy memory. Each story shared had been heavy, a bitter past we didn't want to relive. A family member who has caused us so much pain. It would seem we had more in common than we both thought.

“Your mother, Siri,” he whispered tenderly, and I stiffened. “Did you know her?”

I shook my head. “I don’t even know what she looks like. I don’t know her name. Marshall has never spoken a single word about her. Not a single word, Jackson. I don’t know if she’s dead or alive.”

His hand stroked my hair, and when it passed freely through it, I realized he had loosened it from the braid. The bastard. 

“When people erase every trace of someone in their lives, it usually means they’re a painful memory they’re trying to forget. Maybe he might have loved her once. Maybe he might still do if he wouldn't talk about her or show a picture of her.”

I scoffed harshly, shaking my head. “Monsters aren't capable of love, Jackson.”

“Monsters have hearts too, my love. They’re capable of many things, and love is one of them.” 

“Then why has he never loved me?” I asked, my voice cracking, and I hated it. 

I hated that even at twenty-one I was still asking a question like that when I had told myself I was past it. That I was over Marshall and his bullshit, and that look of emptiness in his eyes whenever he looked at me. That look that says he feels nothing when it comes to me, not even hate, not even pity. Just… nothing. I would take any emotion over that empty look any time of the day. Because an emotion there when he looked at me would mean he sees me, and not just a speaking wall that moves and breathes. 

“I don’t know,” Jackson whispered, placing a kiss at the top of my head. “I have something for you.”

He released his arms around me, and when he pulled away, I suddenly wanted to drag him back, but I resisted and just watched as he came to sit in front of me. Still looking at me with a slight lift of his lips and a nervous look in his eyes, he reached for his coat pocket. My eyes immediately dropped to it.

“Ah-ha, baby girl,” he said with his lips now fully curved. “Eyes on mine.”

I huffed but raised my eyes to his, looking into those eyes that I was drowning in. He moved; I heard a shuffle, then a rustle, but I didn't look away from his eyes even as every part of me fought to.

Finally, he cleared his throat, looking more nervous. “Okay, now–”

I looked down before the words even left his mouth, and my eyes widened when I saw what he held in his hands.