I went to the flower shop run by my aunt. After my mom passed away, I moved in with her and started helping out at the shop.

It’s a big flower shop on the ground floor, with a three-bedroom flat above it where we now live together. After my uncle died, my aunt started this shop on her own. She’s strong like that.

I parked my bicycle in front of the shop and walked inside. Amayra was there; she was our part-time helper. When she heard my footsteps, she looked up and smiled.

I placed my bag on the counter and hugged her from behind.

“Your dad called. Why didn’t you pick up his calls?” she said, still looking at the screen.

The arms I had wrapped around her slowly loosened as soon as I heard his name.

“He wants you to come back home. He says he’s worried,” she added.

“I’m tired… I’m going upstairs,” I mumbled, picking up my bag and heading straight to my room.

I lay down on my bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

I love my dad. I do. But I also hate him.

It’s been a year since I left that house. The reason was simple, he was responsible for my mom’s death. Because of him, she died in that car accident. And no matter what anyone says, I can’t forgive him for that. I can’t even look at him without feeling that same wave of pain and anger crash over me.

Maybe that makes me heartless.

Or maybe it just means I loved her too much to pretend everything’s fine.

Some wounds don’t fade with time, they just settle deeper.

A soft knock came at my door. I sat up on my bed.

“Come in,” I said.

Aunt walked straight in and came over to me. She wrapped her arms around me.

“Were you crying?” she asked gently, patting my head.

“No,” I replied, holding her tightly. “I just don’t want to see him.”

“Why?” she asked as she pulled back and held my hand in hers. Her hands were warm and comforting.

“He loves you. That’s why he comes so often, just to see you,” she said softly. “Can’t you just visit him?”

“I’m sorry, Aunt… but I can’t,” I said, shaking my head.

“He asked me to send you home,” she said quietly.

“Aunt, I’m sleepy… can we talk later?” I asked, just trying to escape the conversation.

She looked at me for a moment, her eyes soft and understanding. She knew me too well to push further.

“Okay, I am leaving,” she said with a gentle nod. She stood up, brushing her palm over my head lovingly. “Get some rest. I’ll cook dinner for you.”

I gave her a faint smile as she walked to the door. Just before stepping out, she paused and looked back.

“I am always here. Don’t forget,” she said softly. ”Come for dinner later.”

With that, she quietly left the room, closing the door behind her.

The silence returned, heavy and unspoken.

I lay back down, staring at the ceiling again,

only this time, my chest felt tighter than before.

My comfort note

Dear comfort note,

I know I’m not a good daughter to my father. Maybe I’m heartless. Maybe I only think about my feelings. I never really considered his. But I can’t help it, this is just how I am. I do what I want, I say what I feel.

And maybe that makes me selfish. But if Dad didn’t have so many enemies, maybe Mom would still be alive.

I know it’s wrong to blame him. I know it’s unfair. But I’m not strong enough to forgive him, and I’m definitely not ready to go back to him.

Sometimes, I wonder if you, my comfort note, think I’m a bad person too. I wouldn’t blame you if you did.

I don’t care what others say about me. I’ve stopped caring about people’s opinions a long time ago. But you… Please don’t hate me. You’re the only one I can pour my heart out to without pretending to be someone I’m not.

With you, I’m not the “good girl.” I’m just me. Mask off.

Yes, I’m a bad daughter. And no, I’m not denying it.