Un jour il m'aimera

~ A M E L I A ~

Morning jogs had been my favourite thing lately. The sun warmed my cheeks as it rose to warm the earth, and the gentle breeze triggered soft prickles up my arms, down my back and down to escape the base of my feet as they thudded against the ground whilst I pushed harder and harder to keep my pace.

And nothing would beat a jog in the woods. Breathing in that fresh and crisp air, away from the noise of the world and allowing you space to ground yourself…

There was just something about nature. It was the same feeling I got at night. I felt more connected with myself.

‘I’m home!’ I announced as I wobbled through the door, kicking my trainers off as I removed my jacket.

It was a little after 8 in the morning and I was severely impressed with the sudden increase in my stamina. Especially considering, not even a month ago I was suffering with the worst flu I had ever experienced. I was surprised my parents didn’t think I was being overly dramatic when I said I felt like I was dying; with a high fever, a weak body and overly sensitive senses. I couldn’t even stomach any food. It was utter torture.

My mind had been in overdrive since my recovery. I’d been noticing and feeling everything around me so differently, especially when I was outside on my runs in the woods. The ripples in the lake, the dew on the grass, the smell of the morning versus the evening. It was like all my senses got an upgrade and everything was now in high definition.

‘Mum? Dad?’ A pitchy ring nipped my ears as I removed my headphones. Shaking my head, I placed them and my jacket down on the side table by the stairs.

At that moment, my gaze was drawn to my reflection in the full-length mirror by the front door. All these extra runs and training sessions I had been doing were really helping me tone up a lot. I was building a nice level of muscle without being overly bulky or defined. It was impressive!

A welcoming smell of bacon and eggs caught my attention, followed by the scent of Mum’s divine blueberry and white chocolate chip pancakes, which were only ever made for three reasons: when there’s good news; bad news; or on my birthday, since they are my favourite.

‘Uh-oh, I smell pancakes!’ I called, striding into the kitchen, ‘Please tell me it’s at least good news because I am starv- Oh! Who’s that package for?’ I gazed at the medium-sized box, taking claim of one of the four chairs at the kitchen table, smiling at my parents eagerly to inform me.

My parents both looked at each other, then back at me.

The eager smile I had slowly fallen flat, ‘Oh… it’s bad news?’

Mum turned around to continue making pancakes. She hated delivering bad news, so she used cooking to help calm herself down and hoped that the food would ease the blow of delivering the negative information.

‘Amelia,’ Dad sighed, placing his coffee down on the table, ‘you should sit down. We need to talk,’ his voice was soft and slow.

Mum placed a large plate of pancakes on the table and sat down next to Dad, clasping her hands together, and still not looking at me.

From the size of the pancake tower, she was very stressed. Add her lack of eye contact and Dad talking super calmly… this was likely to be some terrible news.

‘Mum, Dad, you’re both freaking me out. Just say it! Did someone die?’

They looked at each other again.

Immediately, I sat opposite them, ‘Oh my god, who was it? Grandpa Mitch? I thought he was getting better!’

‘No, no, Grandpa Mitch is fine, he’s doing great in fact,’ Mum sighed and grabbed my hand, finally looking at me, ‘It’s your father.’

I locked eyes with Dad, then back to Mum, ‘He’s right there,’ I gestured with the thumb of my free hand, trying to make the situation a bit more lighthearted, but failed miserably with the lack of reactions from my parents. Dad would’ve laughed, even if the bad news was about him. It was something very, very serious.

‘No, Amelia,’ Dad said. He hesitated to continue, but cleared his throat to allow the words to finally come out, ‘It’s your birth father.’

My brows perked up for a second and relaxed just as quickly. Words were not forming inside my mind to speak out, all my brain could do was become incredibly self-aware of my breathing. I suddenly felt cold and that prickling pins and needles and travelled down my body only made that feeling worse. My chest rose and fell as my breath deepened.

I opened my mouth to speak, ‘Oh…’ was all I could say.

‘Honey, I’m so sorry—’

Coming to a stand and holding my hands up away from my mum’s attempt to comfort me, ‘Guys, it’s okay, I get it! I already knew I was adopted, and I knew nothing about my birth parents. So why should I care, right?’

My parents never kept the adoption secret from me. Besides, their blonde hair and blue eyes, against my deep-dark brown hair and amber eyes would’ve made it blatantly obvious to myself eventually.

I could feel my breathing become heavier, my hunger was lost and was taken over by nausea. Trying to keep a brave face, to show my parents I didn’t care, but they knew me too well, they probably could already tell I was lying.

‘Amelia, sweetheart,’ Mum stood, ‘you’re allowed to feel sad, or even angry at this news.’

Stepping back from my mother, which made her freeze to allow me space. A forced smile appears on my face, ‘I’m not! I mean it sucks that the guy is dead, don’t get me wrong about that, but he’s not my family. He didn’t raise me. He didn’t protect me from the monsters in my closet, or read me bedtime stories to help me sleep when I had those horrible nightmares. He didn’t teach me how to ride a bike, or take me to my first swimming lesson, or martial arts or archery classes.’ I took a breath, realising I could go on and on. As I paced the room, the anxiety in me began feeding my nausea, ‘He didn’t teach me to be the person I am today. It’s not like I ever expected him to turn up and tell me about where I come from or who he is or…’ I’d run out of breath and things to say. My mind was becoming a hazy foggy and it was suffocating me.

Mum and Dad looked at each other and back at me, again.

My movement paused as I locked my sight on the package, noticing an envelope sitting on top of it, labelled “To my daughter”.

So, this package was for me. From him.

’See,’ I picked up the letter, the air around me becoming thinner, ‘He didn’t even name me!’ I forced a laugh then slammed the letter down on the package. I spoke through gritted teeth, ‘Why should I—’ my breathing hitched harshly, feeling the fury that had built up in me. It felt so strong like I was a volcano about to burst. I could barely control it. I felt like I had to break something. But my anger and hateful words became mute when I realised it was all a lie. As I exhaled, the rage dissipated from me, making me shudder as my true feelings took over, ‘Why… why do I care?’ I looked up to my parents as tears finally streamed down my face and I dropped to my knees, curling into myself as I broke down into complete despair.

My parents’ arms embraced me almost instantly and squeezed me tightly. Their warmth comforted my sorrow and their silence allowed me to feel it all.