I can't move. The whole week I have been psyching myself for this moment, arriving at your house and knocking on the door. I had big plans for what I was going to say; why did you leave? Why did you stop talking to me? Am I still your daughter? You used to be my daddy, we were so close, how could you ignore that? How could you do that to me? Do you ever think of me? Can you even remember the memories that come floating into my head at inopportune moments every day? I'll pop out to get milk and have a sudden flashback to you whizzing me down the supermarket aisles in the shopping trolley, or to the time we had a flour fight when we were supposed to be baking a cake for Mother's Day. I'll be watering plants in the garden and suddenly I'll remember you dragging my new sledge out of the shed, and how we laughed, and how rosy your cheeks were as we ran up the snowy hill together. Do you ever remember me?
I have so much to say, but the words are a jumbling chaos in my head and my hands are stuck to the steering wheel like it's made of ice. I've been further than this before. Last time, I strode all the way to the front door before the waves of self-doubt, of anger, of hatred and of hurt came crashing down around my ears. I just want to understand, to piece the jigsaw of my life together and see it objectively. I want to move on. I want my thoughts to myself instead of having them run off to you every time the lights turn off.
I look down at my hands on the wheel, white-knuckles under cracked skin. The mole on my wrist that matches yours. I force myself to loosen my grip, and then to put my hands on my lap. I lift my head and turn slowly to the right, to see your house through the slowly steaming window. Uncut grass. No flowers. A white plastic door with a dark curtain blocking the window from the other side. The path and door are to the right of the unkempt garden, and a small brick wall with moss growing on it separates the path from the house next to it. I look back down to the inside of my car door, running my finger along the black plastic. I trace the red nub that would lock me in, and follow the line along to the pointed edge of the handle, pressing my thumb into the rounded point a few times. I stretch out my fingers then wrap them under the handle and pull. The door is open now, and I find the energy to unclip my seatbelt and leave the car. The cold air chills my spine and I close the door and step forward, my head raging with thoughts my tongue can't articulate. Two steps, three. I am suddenly very conscious of my face; my eyebrows are so tense that my temples are starting to throb. I raise them in mock surprise to loosen my face, and that is the exact moment that the door opens and I see you for the first time in three years.
