Chapter 12 - My father’s silence
My parents divorced when I was fifteen.
My father, Paul, lived in Arizona.
We spoke monthly.
Not close.
Not estranged.
When I told him what had happened, he became quiet.
Then said:
“I wondered when you’d notice.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
“What?”
“Elena.”
“What do you mean you wondered?”
“Your mother has always done this with Rachel.”
“You knew she was asking me for money?”
“Not amounts.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you’re an adult.”
Anger exploded.
“That’s convenient.”
“You’re right.”
Silence.
Then he said:
“I should have warned you more clearly.”
“What did you know?”
When Rachel was nineteen, Diane had repeatedly asked Paul to cover Rachel’s expenses beyond their divorce agreement.
When he refused, Diane said:
“You have more than she does.”
Same logic.
Paul had eventually stopped debating each request.
He simply said no.
He watched me become the next financially stable person in the family.
And did nothing.
“I thought you knew what was happening,” he said.
“I didn’t.”
May you like
“I’m sorry.”
That apology mattered because it had no excuse beyond mistaken assumption.
