Between The Lines

By Joanna Maria George

The house was quieter than Laura remembered – devoid of any sign of life. Dust clung to the tables and a musty smell hung in the air, heavy with age and neglect. Traces of her father were still present in the corners of the house, in his empty ashtray and half bottle of whiskey. As she walked around, the familiar creak of the floorboards beneath her feet stirred memories she had long since buried. 

Laura never wanted to return, but the house had to be cleared out, and there was no one else to do it. The task was more an obligation than a farewell. The funeral was yesterday, but she felt little grief. How could she when all her memories were of fights and the putrid stink of alcohol? 

As she cleaned the house, her disdain for her father only grew stronger. She left his study for last, unwilling to enter a space that echoed his presence. It was there that she found the book – hidden away beneath a pile of unwanted bills. It was old, its leather casing fraying at the edges. Her instinct told her to throw it away along with the pile of trash, but curiosity got the better of her.

As soon as she opened the book, her breath caught in her throat. My dear, Laura – it said in her father’s handwriting. For a long moment, she stared at the letters, her mind racing. He had never been one to write anything, let alone something about her. Yet, what surprised her the most was his address of her as ‘his dear’. After all, she had never heard an affectionate word from his mouth.

Eventually, Laura turned the page, only to be surprised to see her date of birth.

16 July 1985

Today, Laura was born. I see her, so small and fragile, and I am terrified. I can feel the weight of responsibility; it’s too big, too overwhelming.

How am I to protect her? How will I teach her all the things she will need to know without failing her? Will I be enough? What if I am not a good father? I want to be strong for her, the rock she can always rely on. Yet, I am unsure.

I am anxious, but there is also something else. Something soft. It’s the kind of emotion I never thought I could feel. I know I’ll do anything to protect her – to give her everything I never had, even if I don’t have all the answers.

Her hands trembled as the book painted a man she didn’t know. To Laura, her father had always been a stubborn man; headstrong and confident in his thoughts. His obstinacy led to the arguments, the heated fights between her parents, and her mother’s eventual departure. 

Shakily, she turned the pages, her eyes scanning the dates until she found the one she wanted.

20 August 1993

The divorce was finalised today. I let her down. I broke the promise I made when I married her. I am a horrible person. I don’t know how I kept it together when I picked Laura up from school today. Laura is eight now, and she deserves better than me fumbling through this.

How do I tell her that her mother is gone? How do I look at her naive face and tell her Mommy is never coming back? 

I am terrified that I’m already failing her. I am scared of being the reason she looks back on her childhood and feels nothing but resentment. I want to be the kind of father she deserves, but I don’t know how. I am afraid I’ll continue to let her down. 

 The words blurred as Laura’s eyes filled with tears. She remembered that day, her father had come to pick her up, wearing his usual frown. She had been in trouble with the teacher for not completing her homework, and her father had to apologise. On the ride home, he had been cold and curt with his replies. She had assumed he was angry at her, but now she wasn’t so sure.

Page after page, Laura read his confessions and his fears. They were filled with his regret for often being busy with work instead of spending time with her. He fretted about the arguments during her teenage years, admitting to his inability to express his love without it coming out as criticism. Some of the entries were detailed apologies to her for drinking, something he had found solace in after her mother had left. In one of them, he described an incident she had forgotten entirely – her sixteenth birthday. She had come home after a bad day at school, to find a box of her favourite chocolates on the kitchen counter. She had never given it much thought, though those chocolates had given her comfort more than everything.

Each page conjured an image of a man who had been deeply flawed but not uncaring; a man who had loved her, even if he had never said it aloud. Laura hated it. It filled her with infuriation, but also confusion, sadness and something that uncomfortably felt like pity.

Eventually, she reached the final entry, dated just a few weeks before his death. Laura noticed that her father’s handwriting was shakier than before.

30 November 2024

I am nearing my end. It’s harder to walk nowadays and I do not have much of an appetite anymore. My chest hurts every time I breathe, and the coughs never end. I wish I were brave enough to tell this to Laura’s face, but I am not. 

I don’t know if she’ll ever find this book, but if she does, I want her to know I am proud of her. I don’t think I ever told her that. She has grown into a smart and capable woman, someone far greater than me. I am sorry I could never show how much she means to me.

I love you, my daughter. I’ve always loved you, even when I didn’t know how to show it.

The rest of the pages were blank, but as Laura flipped through them, a small photograph dropped out. Her eyes welled with tears when she saw her father holding her three-year-old self high up in the air. Laura closed the book and sat in the quiet room for a long time, contemplating the new information she had about her father. 

When she finally left the house, the book was tucked under her arm. It wasn’t forgiveness – no, not yet – but a step. As she walked out of the door, she felt rejuvenated, as though some of the weight she had been carrying all these years had finally lifted. 

By Joanna Maria George