Chapter 163

Chapter 163
Linnet's POV


"He was so proud of himself when he finally mastered my mother's recipes," she continued. "Would plate everything so carefully, like we were at a fancy restaurant instead of our cramped apartment with its mismatched furniture and the radiator that clanked all night. And the food—God, Linnet, the food was usually terrible at first. Too much salt or not enough seasoning, pasta cooked to mush or chicken so dry you could barely swallow it. But I ate every bite and told him it was delicious because I could see how much effort he'd put into it, how much he wanted to take care of me in this tangible, concrete way."

"He sounds wonderful," I whispered, feeling the sting of tears behind my closed eyelids at the thought of everything I'd lost when he died, all the moments and memories and lessons I'd never get to have with him, all the ways he might have shaped me if he'd lived long enough to be a real presence in my life rather than just a collection of secondhand stories and faded photographs.

"He was," Mom agreed softly, and I heard the thickness in her voice that meant she was crying too, that we were sharing this grief across the years, mourning together the man who'd loved us both so completely.

"He was sensitive in a way a lot of men aren't—had this incredible capacity for empathy, for feeling other people's emotions almost as strongly as his own. He cried at commercials, at sad movies, at news stories about injustice or suffering. I'd find him with tears streaming down his face watching some documentary about refugees or climate change or animal cruelty, and he'd be so embarrassed about it, like crying somehow made him less of a man. But to me it was one of his greatest strengths, one of the things I loved most about him. It meant he understood pain, understood what it meant to hurt, and so he was always so careful with other people's hearts. He never raised his voice, never used his size or strength to intimidate, never made me feel small or stupid or less than. He treated me like an equal, like my thoughts and feelings mattered as much as his own."

She paused, and I could feel her shift slightly against me, adjusting her position to be more comfortable while her hand never stopped its gentle movement through my hair, that soothing rhythm that was pulling me deeper toward sleep with every pass.

"When I told him I was pregnant with you," she continued, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper like she was sharing a secret, "he cried for twenty minutes straight. Just held me and cried and kept saying 'we're going to have a baby' over and over like he couldn't quite believe it was real, like it was the most miraculous thing that had ever happened to anyone in the history of the world. And then he started planning immediately—drawing up budgets on notebook paper, researching cribs and car seats at the library because we couldn't afford a computer, reading every parenting book he could get his hands on, taking notes and highlighting passages and making lists of everything we'd need to do to prepare. He was so determined to be the best father possible, to give you everything he'd never had growing up in foster care, to make sure you always knew you were loved and wanted and valued."

The tears were flowing freely now, soaking into Mom's pajama top, and I didn't try to stop them or wipe them away, just let them fall and fall until I thought I might drown in grief for a man I barely remembered, for the father I should have had if the universe had been even slightly fair.

"I wish I remembered him better," I said, my voice thick and muffled against her shoulder. "I wish I had more than just fragments—impressions of his voice, the feeling of being held, the sound of him laughing. It's not fair that he's gone. It's not fair that you had to do everything alone, that I had to grow up without him."

"No," Mom agreed, and I heard the tears in her voice too, heard the way grief could still ambush her even after all these years. "It's not fair at all. But Linnet, I want you to know—every good thing about you, every kind impulse and generous thought and moment of empathy—that's David's legacy. That's him living on through you. You have his heart, his capacity for love, his determination to make the world better than you found it. And that's worth more than any amount of memories, more than any collection of stories I could tell you. You are the best parts of him, combined with the best parts of me, and that's a gift I'll be grateful for every day of my life."

I turned my face into her shoulder, letting the tears fall freely now, grieving not just for the father I'd barely known but for everything Mom had lost—the love that had healed her from Cole's abuse, the partnership that had shown her what relationships could be when built on respect and tenderness rather than control and fear, the future they'd planned together that had been stolen by a drunk driver who'd walked away from the accident without a scratch while my father had died instantly on impact.

"Mom," I said when I could speak again, when I'd cried enough that my throat was raw and my eyes felt swollen, "listening to you talk about him, about the two of you together—I can tell you really loved each other. That it was real and deep and the kind of love people spend their whole lives searching for and some never find. I'm so lucky to have had you and Dad as my parents, even if I only got him for a little while. You're the best parents anyone could ask for."

"I'm lucky to have you as my daughter," Mom replied immediately, her arms tightening around me like she was afraid I might slip away if she didn't hold on tight enough.

"Thank you for choosing me to be your mother. And I think—I hope—I've done okay by you. Despite everything we've been through, despite all the ways I've had to struggle and fail and pick myself back up again, despite all the times I couldn't give you what you needed or wanted because we just didn't have the money or the resources or the time, I hope I've given you enough love and support to know that you're valued, that you matter, that you deserve all the good things life has to offer. I hope I've taught you that your worth isn't determined by your bank account or your zip code or what kind of car you drive, but by who you are as a person, by how you treat others, by the kindness and integrity you bring to the world."