Chapter 3: The Story He Told Everyone Else
Amy read her aunt's message three times before she could make herself believe it.
Your dad called me. He says you need to stop making him feel guilty about not being around.
The shopping mall suddenly felt too bright.
A child ran past them carrying a balloon. Somewhere behind the cosmetics counter, a sales assistant laughed. The escalator carried strangers upward, each person occupied with an ordinary afternoon that had not just been rearranged by one cruel sentence.
Amy stood beside the railing, gripping her phone.
Marcus waited a few feet away.
He didn't reach for the device. He didn't ask her to show him the message.
He simply watched her struggle to decide whether she wanted to cry or pretend she didn't care.
“What did Denise say?”” he asked gently.
Amy swallowed.
“She said Dad called her.””
Marcus nodded once.
“What about?””
Amy let out a shaky breath.
“He told her I'm making him feel guilty because he can't be around.””
The words sounded worse when spoken aloud.
Marcus's jaw tightened.
He looked away for a moment, toward the glass doors at the end of the corridor. Then he took a slow breath and turned back to Amy.
“Did you tell your aunt what happened?””
“No.””
“Do you want to?””
Amy shook her head.
“What's the point? He'll just say I'm exaggerating.””
“Then don't explain anything you aren't ready to explain.””
She looked at him, surprised.
“You're not going to tell me to call him?””
“No.””
“Or tell me I should be grateful he's still in my life?””
Marcus's face softened, but his voice remained firm.
“Gratitude isn't supposed to mean pretending something doesn't hurt.””
Amy's eyes filled.
She quickly turned toward the shoe department.
“Can we just finish shopping?””
“Of course.””
They walked in silence.
Amy chose a pair of silver heels after trying on four different pairs. Marcus crouched to examine the soles as though he were inspecting a car tire.
“You're not going to wear those all night, are you?”” he asked.
“Why wouldn't I?””
“Because I remember your seventh-grade graduation. You wore shoes like these and complained about your feet for three straight hours.””
“I was twelve.””
“Your feet were twelve, too.””
She laughed in spite of herself.
“Please don't tell that story at homecoming.””
“I'll tell it to the DJ.””
“Marcus!””
He stood, smiling.
“Fine. Your secrets are safe with me.””
At the register, Amy paid for the shoes herself. She insisted on it, and Marcus didn't argue.
When they left the store, he carried the dress while she carried the shoe box.
The small, ordinary arrangement felt comforting.
For a few minutes, Amy could almost forget that her biological father had turned her excitement into an accusation.
Almost.
By the time they reached the parking lot, she had opened her aunt's message again.
“Should I answer her?”” Amy asked.
Marcus unlocked the car.
“Only if you want to.””
“She might think I'm being dramatic.””
“Then tell her what happened without trying to convince her how you felt.””
Amy leaned against the passenger door.
“What if she doesn't believe me?””
Marcus looked at her.
“Someone else's disbelief doesn't change what happened to you.””
She stared at him for a moment before climbing into the car.
The drive home was quiet.
Marcus didn't turn on the radio. He let the soft sound of the tires against the road fill the silence while Amy watched the houses pass outside her window.
At a red light, she opened the conversation with her aunt and began typing.
I asked Dad if he could take me shopping for my homecoming dress. He said no. Marcus took me instead.
She paused, then added:
I wasn't trying to make him feel guilty. I just wanted him to come.
Her thumb hovered over the send button.
“Is that okay?”” she asked.
Marcus kept his eyes on the road.
“It's honest.””
She sent it.
The light turned green.
A few minutes later, her aunt replied.
Oh, baby. I didn't know he said it like that. I'm sorry.
Amy read the message and set her phone in her lap.
The apology helped, but it didn't erase the embarrassment.
She had never wanted to become a family discussion. She had never wanted her disappointment passed from one relative to another until someone decided whether it was justified.
When they reached home, Marcus carried the shopping bags inside while Amy went upstairs to try the dress on one more time.
He heard her bedroom door close.
Then the house fell quiet.
Marcus placed the bags beside the sofa and stood in the living room where the afternoon had begun.
His book still lay on the coffee table.
He picked it up, looked at the page, and set it down again.
He had learned a long time ago that loving a child didn't mean you could protect her from every disappointment. Sometimes all you could do was make sure she didn't face it alone.
But watching Amy discover that her father could reject her and then blame her for being hurt brought back memories Marcus rarely allowed himself to revisit.
He remembered the first time he'd met her.
She had been six years old, sitting at the kitchen table with a coloring book and a glass of apple juice. Her mother, Renee, had introduced them with the careful optimism of someone who wanted her daughter to like a man but knew she couldn't demand it.
Amy had studied him for nearly a minute.
Then she'd asked, “Are you going to live here?””
Marcus had crouched beside her chair.
“If your mom says it's okay.””
“And are you going to tell me what to do?””
“Probably sometimes.””
She had frowned.
“Then I don't like you yet.””
Marcus had laughed.
“That's fair.””
She had returned to her coloring book.
Three weeks later, she had fallen asleep on the sofa during a movie, her small hand wrapped around two of his fingers.
Marcus had sat there for an hour after the credits ended, afraid to move and wake her.
He hadn't become her father in one grand moment.
It had happened in hundreds of small ones.
Packing lunches. Learning which bedtime stories she liked. Sitting beside her bed during thunderstorms. Showing up when she had forgotten that someone would.
And he had never once believed those moments made him entitled to replace the man whose absence had hurt her.
He had only hoped that, someday, she would understand that love wasn't a competition.
Upstairs, a door opened.
Amy came down wearing the lavender dress, her curls falling around her shoulders. She had changed out of her jeans but kept the pale-yellow cardigan draped over one arm.
Marcus turned.
“Well, look at you.””
She stopped in front of the mirror above the hallway table.
“I think I need to get the hem adjusted.””
“We can do that.””
“And maybe different earrings.””
“We can do that, too.””
She studied her reflection.
“Do you think it's weird that I still want him to come to homecoming?””
Marcus shook his head.
“No.””
“Even after today?””
“Especially after today.””
Amy turned away from the mirror.
“But he doesn't seem to want me unless I'm doing something that makes him look like a good dad.””
Marcus didn't answer immediately.
He could have told her that her father was wrong. He could have listed every promise the man had broken. He could have let years of resentment spill into the room.
Instead, he asked a question.
“What do you want from him, Amy?””
She frowned.
“What do you mean?””
“If you could ask him for one thing—not money, not a gift, not a big speech—what would it be?””
Amy looked down at the lavender skirt.
“I want him to show up.””
Her voice cracked.
“I want him to say he's coming and then actually come. I want him to ask me how school is going and remember the answer. I want him to know what grade I'm in without asking Aunt Denise.””
She pressed the cardigan against her chest.
“And I want him to stop acting like I'm hurting him when I tell him I'm hurt.””
Marcus felt the words settle heavily between them.
“That makes sense,” he said.
Amy wiped her cheek.
“Sometimes I think if I were easier to love, he would want to be around more.””
Marcus crossed the room.
He didn't rush her or pull her into a hug before she was ready. He stood in front of her and waited until she looked up.
“Listen to me carefully,” he said.
“You could be the easiest person in the world to love, and somebody who doesn't know how to show up would still find a way to disappoint you.””
Amy's chin trembled.
“That doesn't mean you're not worth showing up for.””
She looked at him, and whatever she had been holding back finally gave way.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
Marcus held her close.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then Amy whispered, “I'm sorry I said I wanted my real dad.””
Marcus closed his eyes briefly.
When he answered, his voice was warm.
“You're allowed to want your biological father, Amy. I'm not going to punish you for that.””
“But you looked hurt.””
“I was hurt.””
She pulled back enough to look at him.
He didn't hide it.
“But my feelings are mine to handle,” he continued.
“You don't have to make yourself smaller so I won't feel them.””
Amy's eyes filled again.
Marcus brushed a curl away from her face.
“You can love him. You can miss him. You can wish things were different. None of that takes anything away from us.””
She hugged him again, more tightly this time.
“I don't know why he can't just be like you.””
Marcus looked toward the window.
“I'm not him, sweetheart.””
“I know.””
“And I can't answer for the choices he makes.””
Amy nodded against his shoulder.
“But I can tell you this,” Marcus continued.
“You never have to earn your place in this house. Not with good grades, not by being cheerful, and not by pretending you're okay when you're not.””
She stayed in his arms until her breathing settled.
Later that evening, Marcus made spaghetti while Amy sat at the kitchen counter, helping grate cheese. They argued about how much garlic belonged in the sauce, and she accused him of trying to poison the neighborhood with his cooking.
He accused her of having no appreciation for culinary excellence.
For a little while, they were simply Marcus and Amy again.
Then her phone rang.
The screen displayed her biological father's name.
Amy froze with the grater still in her hand.
Marcus turned down the burner.
“You don't have to answer it,” he said.
Amy looked at the screen.
“I know.””
The phone rang again.
She wiped her hands and answered.
“Hello?””
She listened.
Her expression changed slowly, first with surprise, then confusion.
“What do you mean?””
A pause.
“Dad, I didn't tell anybody you were a bad father.””
Another pause.
Amy's fingers tightened around the phone.
“I only told Aunt Denise what happened.””
Marcus stood still beside the stove.
Amy swallowed.
“No, I wasn't trying to embarrass you.””
Her voice grew smaller.
“I just wanted you to come shopping with me.””
She listened for several seconds, staring at the kitchen floor.
Then she whispered, “Okay.””
She ended the call.
Marcus waited.
Amy placed her phone on the counter as though she were afraid it might break.
“What did he say?”” Marcus asked.
She stared at the dark screen.
“He said I made him look bad.””
Marcus's face hardened.
Amy continued before he could speak.
“He said everybody thinks he's a terrible father now, and it's my fault because I told Aunt Denise.””
She looked up, tears gathering again.
“Then he said he would come to my homecoming after all.””
For one brief second, hope flickered across her face.
Then she lowered her eyes.
“He said he's only coming because he doesn't want the family thinking he doesn't care.””
Marcus turned off the stove.
The kitchen fell quiet except for the faint bubbling of sauce.
Amy stood motionless, her hand resting beside the phone.
“Marcus?””
“I'm here.””
She looked at him with a fear that seemed far too old for seventeen.
“If he comes to homecoming, how do I know whether he's coming for me—or just so everyone can see him there?””
Marcus crossed the kitchen and took the grater from her hand.
He set it carefully on the counter.
Then he looked at the girl in the lavender dress, the girl who still wanted her father despite everything, and realized that the next decision would be harder than choosing a dress.
May you like
Because this time, Amy wasn't asking whether her father would show up.
She was asking whether she could trust the reason he did.