ORION.
I wandered through the hollow halls of the place I once called home, the echoes of my footsteps serving as a haunting reminder of the place that once held my happiest memories. The walls, adorned with family portraits, seemed to whisper stories of a past that seemed like a lifetime ago, the faded smiles and laughter now taunting me like a distant, unattainable dream.
My eyes drifted over the familiar faces, yet the images felt like they belonged to someone else's life, a life I'd never truly known. I couldn't even remember the day my picture was taken, the smile on my face a distant, fading memory, lost in the shadows of my painful childhood.
A wave of nausea washed over me as I caught sight of a portrait that seemed to mock me - my father, his wife, and their son, all smiling, all together. The image was a brutal reminder of what I'd never had, what I'd been denied. My gaze involuntarily drifted to the adjacent picture, one I'd taken with my father and grandfather as a child. The contrast was jarring, a painful reminder of the fact that, that was supposed to be me, my mom and father, a family that once was, but now seemed like a distant fantasy.
The realization cut deep, a fresh wound that threatened to reopen old scars. I looked away, disgust and resentment simmering in my chest like a toxic brew. Why had I agreed to come to this place? The answer echoed in my mind: I'd made a promise to Harro to try, to take my father's extended olive branch and see where it led. The weight of that promise settled heavy on my shoulders, a constant reminder of the fragile bonds I was trying to rebuild, and the ghosts of my past that I was trying to confront.
"Ah, there you are, Orion!" My father's wife exclaimed as she rounded the corner and saw me, her voice shrill and overly enthusiastic, shattering the fragile calm that had settled over me. She beckoned me over with a cheerful smile, her eyes gleaming with polite warmth. "We're ready for you, dear. If you could just follow me to the garden, we'll get started on the photoshoot."
I forced a polite smile onto my face, the muscles in my cheeks straining with the effort. As I trailed behind her, my mind wandered back to the reason I was here – Harro had told me to play nice and not let my father get under my skin.
"Your father might not show it, but he's happy you came," she said, her voice sounding sincere, as she guided me through the manicured lawn. I remained silent, my expression neutral, I don't really care about my father's feelings right now. All I wanted was to get this charade over with and escape back to my own sanctuary.
The next few hours loomed before me like a prison sentence – posing for pictures, faking smiles, and pretending to be interested in conversations. I could already feel my energy waning, my patience wearing thin. Even my stepmother, usually a bundle of enthusiasm, looked like she was reaching her breaking point, her smile faltering, her eyes glazing over with exhaustion.
As I watched her, I felt a pang of unexpected sympathy. Despite her transgressions – the affair with my father while my mother was sick – she didn't seem like a malicious person just an ambitious one. Maybe, just maybe, it was time to forgive her, not for her sake, but for mine. Holding onto resentment and anger was exhausting, and I was tired of carrying that burden. Forgiveness wouldn't erase the past, but it might just set me free.
My stepbrother and I stood side by side, an awkward silence between us, as we posed behind his mother and my father for the family portrait. Our only exchange was a polite nod of acknowledgement, a polite gesture that barely scratched the surface of our strained relationship. And we both let out a silent sigh of relief when the photographer finally announced that he'd gotten the perfect shot.
As we sat down at the dinner table, my stepmother's weary smile hinted at the exhaustion she felt. "It's been wonderful having you here today," she said, her voice laced with a hint of nervousness and sincerity. "We should do this more often. Orion, you can even bring your...friend for dinner sometimes." Her hesitation before saying "friend" was obvious, and I raised an eyebrow in amusement. Was that really how she chose to refer to Harro? Was it too much for her to refer to him as my boyfriend?
But before I could respond, my stepbrother spoke. "Why not bring him to Dad's birthday party?" he asked, his voice casual, but his eyes sparkling with a mixture of curiosity and mischief. I was taken aback, unsure of how to react. We'd never spoken directly to each other before, our interactions limited to stiff nods and awkward silences. His sudden interest in my personal life caught me off guard, and I struggled to respond, my mind racing with questions. What was his motive? Was he genuinely interested, or just trying to stir up trouble?
"Yes, that sounds like a great idea!" his mom chimed in, turning to my father with an expectant smile. "What do you think, dear?" she asked, her voice dripping with an unfamiliar kindness that made my stomach turn.
But my father's response was far from kind. "I'm not inviting him to my birthday party," he growled, his face twisting into a scowl. I felt a surge of indignation at his words, my heart racing with anger.
"His name is Harro," I said looking at them, my voice firm and steady. "And you should really rethink your decision, because I'm not coming if he's not invited." I met my father's glare with a steady gaze, my jaw set in determination.
At this point, I was seething with frustration, my patience worn thin by my father's behavior. Was he still reeling from the fact that I was dating a man, or was it something more specific about Harro that had him so riled up? Whatever the reason, I was done with his pettiness, his condescending attitude, and his blatant disrespect.
I had promised Harro I'd play nice, but I drew the line at my father's rudeness. I had barely begun to rebuild my sense of self-worth, to establish boundaries and demand respect. I wasn't about to let my father's toxic behavior undermine all that progress. I remembered the dark days when my father's words and actions had left me feeling small, insignificant, and powerless. I wasn't that person anymore, and I wouldn't let him treat me like that again.
We ate dinner in a silence that was almost, but not quite, comfortable. The tension had dissipated slightly, replaced by a fragile sense of truce that settled over the table like a thin layer of ice. I was relieved that I no longer had to hide my true self from them, that I could finally be myself without fear of judgment or rejection.
But despite this small victory, my heart ached with every passing moment. I missed Harro terribly, his absence a physical ache that gnawed at my chest like a hollowed-out space. Every minute felt like an eternity, every second ticking by at a glacial pace. I was counting down the moments until I could escape this awkward dinner, until I could flee back to Harro's warm, loving arms, and leave this strained, artificial atmosphere behind.