Along the upper edge of the wall, a shelf runs the entire circumference of the room. There are knickknacks and dolls, old toys from my childhood, and picture frames filled with images of me, Mom, and Dad during the first seven years of my life. In the far right corner, the door is open to a large walk-in closet.
I blink back my surprise, trying to form cohesive thoughts. It’s beautiful and mysterious for sure, but anxiety washes through me and I can’t seem to shake it.
“It’s almost exactly like I remember it,” I say breathlessly.
Dad grins broadly.
“Do you still like it?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say, trying to hide my sudden trepidation. “What’s not to love?”
“Good. Good…this was the room you picked out when you were little. You said it had the best view, so it was yours,” he says, chuckling softly. “Well, how about we head to the kitchen and grab that snack?”
“Sure,” I say, dropping my backpack on the bed and turning around. “Let’s do it.”
Leaving my bedroom behind, Dad stops at the doorway across the hall from my bedroom and points. “I don’t know if you remember, but this is your bathroom, by the way. It’s not attached or anything, but at least it’s close.”
I peek inside, marveling at the spaciousness of it. It’s bigger than my bedroom back at Mom’s. Large windows along the main wall are composed of frosted panes of glass, but have no curtains. In the middle of the room stands a big soaker tub with old-fashioned clawed feet. To the right is the toilet and large double-sink vanity.
“Whoever built this home certainly didn’t do things small, did they?” I laugh.
“I’m kind of with them. Go big or go home, right?” Dad says, his eyes sparkling.
I smile, shaking my head as we step back into the hallway.
“You’ll get used to it. It’s really not as big as you might think. You’re just used to your Mom’s place and—”
I shoot him a sideways glance.
“Sorry, I wasn’t meaning it in a bad way. N-nevermind, let’s—here, let me show you the kitchen,” he mutters.
Dad takes a sharp turn to the left. For a brief moment, the small hallway actually looks like something I would expect in any other ordinary home. But then we enter the spacious, open kitchen, and that pretense falls away.
“Holy crap, you could practically fit Mom’s whole house in this kitchen,” I say, my mouth agape. Angst sweeps through me unexpectedly. Why on earth would she have given all of this up? What was so bad between them? Most kids remember their parents fighting all the time, so a separation and divorce doesn’t seem unusual. But for the life of me, I still have no idea what went wrong.
Dad rakes his fingertips at his eyebrow, but he walks across the expanse to a large double-doored refrigerator.
“We, uh—I didn’t know what you’d like to eat or drink, so there’s a lot to choose from in here,” he says, gesturing for me to come closer. “If you want something else, just let me know. I’ll make sure it gets added to our shopping list so James can pick it up.”
“James?” I say, quirking an eyebrow.
His face darkens a bit as he says, “He’s the housekeeper. You might not think it, but keeping this house running can be a lot of work. So I hired him to help out with some of the tasks.”
I raise my eyebrows, surprised. Mom had to work full-time with two different jobs to make ends meet. And here Dad is, living in practically a mansion with a butler. Okay, housekeeper. In a weird way, it doesn’t seem right. While Mom never complained about Dad or what he did or didn’t do, a tiny well of resentment kicks me in the stomach.
Why didn’t he help us out more?
“Inside there’s juice, milk, soda—you name it,” Dad says, pointing at the fridge and pulling me from my internal dialogue.
Opening it up, I stare into its depths for a moment, and reach for a can of Red Bull.
“That won’t keep you up all night, will it? I hear it’s got some kick,” he offers.
I shrug. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. It’s not like I’ll be going anywhere.”
“Good point,” he laughs. “Are you hungry? What do you want to eat? We have—”
“Actually, I should probably check in with Mom and Wade. I want to let them know I made it safely,” I say.
“Right,” he nods. “I suppose you’ll need the Wi-Fi password. It’s YBG0n3. Wanna write that down?”
“Nah, I’ll just add it to my phone now. Hang on,” I say, taking my phone out of my pocket.
As soon as I get it entered and logged in, I lean against the edge of the breakfast bar, unable to truly grasp the sheer size of this place. I mean, I knew my Dad had a big house, but for some reason, I didn’t realize that translated into having money. It’s weird how when you’re a kid, you don’t think of those things. But now, it’s like moving in with a secret superhero or something.
“Our last name isn’t really Wayne, is it?” I blurt out.
Dad pulls up short and snickers. “Ha—no. Blackwood’s as good as it gets, sweetie.”
“Just checking,” I say, grinning sheepishly.
The two of us stand in awkward silence for a moment before I crack open the Red Bull and take a sip.
“So,” I start.
“So—” Dad repeats.
“I guess, I’ll head back to my room and get situated.”
“Of course. Yeah. You
