My father stood on the porch holding a small gift bag.
He wore the navy jacket he usually saved for dinners outside the house, and his hair was neatly combed.
He looked exactly as I expected him to look.
That made everything harder.
"There she is," he said.
I tried to smile.
"Hi, Dad."
He leaned forward to hug me.
I stepped into his arms and kept my face turned toward his shoulder.
For a moment, I let myself feel safe.
It was only a moment.
When he pulled back, I saw his eyes move toward my left cheek.
My smile almost disappeared.
"Happy birthday, sweetheart."
"Thank you."
He held out the bag.
"I brought you something."
"You didn't have to."
"I know."
That was my father. He never needed an excuse to bring me something, even when he insisted he wasn't making a fuss.
I took the bag and moved aside so he could enter.
He stepped into the hallway and looked around.
"Smells good in here."
"I made dinner."
"I can tell."
He smiled at me.
I wished I could hold on to that expression.
Derek appeared behind me before my father could say anything else.
"Glad you made it," Derek said.
My father turned toward him.
"Wouldn't miss it."
They shook hands.
Derek had always been careful around my father. He used his polite voice, stood a little straighter, and remembered details from previous conversations.
When my father was around, Derek became the sort of man I had once believed he was all the time.
Helpful.
Patient.
Considerate.
He even smiled differently.
It was a smaller smile, one that seemed designed to reassure people rather than share anything with them.
"Emily's been working on dinner all afternoon," Derek said. "You should see what she's done with the cake."
My father glanced at me.
"I'd like that."
I carried his gift into the living room and placed it on the coffee table.
The bag was plain brown paper with a dark ribbon around the handles.
I didn't open it.
I was too busy thinking about the bruise.
Every time I moved beneath the lights, I wondered whether the makeup had shifted.
Every time my father looked at me, I tried to decide whether he had noticed.
He had known me my entire life.
He remembered when I lost my first tooth, when I broke my wrist as a child, and when I tried to cut my own bangs before a school photograph.
He had always noticed the little things.
A change in my voice.
A forced smile.
The way I held my shoulders when I was worried.
I had once found that comforting.
Now I was afraid of it.
"How have you been?" he asked.
"Good."
The answer came too quickly.
He tilted his head.
"Busy?"
"A little."
"Work going all right?"
"Yes. Everything's fine."
I heard myself speaking, and I hated how practiced I sounded.
My father didn't immediately respond.
He simply watched me.
I looked away and pretended to straighten a cushion on the sofa.
Behind us, Derek began talking about the restaurant where he had once taken my father for lunch.
It was a harmless conversation.
That was the problem.
Everything sounded harmless when Derek wanted it to.
He could discuss football, work, the weather, or the price of groceries without anyone guessing what happened when the front door closed.
I had learned to separate those two versions of him.
The one other people knew.
The one I lived with.
Sometimes I wondered whether the distinction had become so familiar that I would never be able to explain it properly to anyone.
My father took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair.
"Should I put this somewhere?"
"I'll take it," I said.
He handed it to me.
As I turned, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror.
The bruise was still there.
I could see the uneven color beneath the concealer, and the swelling made the skin around my eye look slightly different.
I lowered my gaze.
"Emily."
My father's voice stopped me.
I turned back.
"Are you all right?"
The question was quiet.
No accusation.
No suspicion that he wanted me to defend myself against.
Just a question.
For a second, I nearly told him.
I imagined the words coming out plainly.
I imagined saying that Derek had hurt me and that I didn't know how much longer I could keep pretending everything was normal.
I imagined my father putting his jacket back on the chair and sitting beside me until I could finish explaining.
Then I looked toward the kitchen.
Derek was standing near the doorway.
He hadn't said anything.
He didn't need to.
I knew the expression he would wear later if I embarrassed him in front of my father.
I knew the conversation that would follow after the house was quiet.
I knew how he would make my honesty sound like betrayal.
"I'm just tired," I said.
My father studied me for another moment.
"All right."
He didn't argue.
Somehow, that made me feel worse.
He had given me an opening, and I had closed it myself.
I returned his jacket to the chair and followed him toward the dining room.
The table had been set for three.
I had placed the good plates in the center, folded the napkins, and arranged the silverware as neatly as I could.
A small vase of flowers stood beside the cake.
I had bought them on my way home from work.
They were inexpensive, but I liked the way they looked against the white tablecloth.
My father stopped beside the table.
"You did all this yourself?"
"Most of it."
"Looks lovely."
"Thanks."
He pulled out a chair.
Derek moved to the other side of the table and began adjusting a place setting.
For a moment, the three of us looked like an ordinary family preparing to celebrate an ordinary birthday.
I wanted to believe that appearance could become reality if I tried hard enough.
I wanted the evening to pass without questions.
I wanted my father to eat his dinner, admire the cake, and leave believing his daughter was happy.
Most of all, I wanted to stop being afraid of the people who loved me.
I didn't know how to do that yet.
So I smiled, sat down, and waited for dinner to begin.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: Dinner Was Ready, the Cake Was Waiting, and I Kept Watching My Father Instead of Looking at My Husband
I Had Spent Twenty Minutes Hiding the Bruise on My Face, but My Husband Was More Afraid of My Father Seeing It
Part 2 of 20
