Deep down, I knew I shouldn't have done this. But how was I going to let a note scribbled by my mother over ten years ago, telling me to read these entries in order, stop me for real? Nothing material would happen if I flipped several years into the future, which only translated into a few journal pages.

I sat hunched over the kitchen counter, knowing my dad wouldn't burst in anytime soon. Work dinners usually lasted until eleven or into the early hours of the morning, but I had a feeling it wouldn't be the company's fault if he strolled in later. As the days had passed, I'd stopped feeling guilty for not telling him about Cassandra, despite having video evidence of her infidelity. Surely, a man as smart as he was would eventually figure out his partner was a cheater, and at least then I wouldn't have to be the bearer of the bad news.

I thumbed through the pages of the journal hastily, a whir of pen colors before my eyes—blue, purple, black, and green. I'd never made a connection between the colors and the mood of the entries, but I noticed that the best ones were always in purple and the worst in blue.

The date was far too early to be what I was looking for, the entry to validate Jesse's recount of Samantha's funeral, but the blue writing hooked me from the first sentence.

September 17, 1995

7:49 p.m.

I don't why I thought the longer I stared at it, that it would suddenly disappear into my eyes, into the shadows of nothingness.

It can't be real. It can't be real. It can't be real.

Those were the only four words that I could recite in my head as I stared down at the two blue lines. I opened and closed my eyes. I stood up and sat down. I opened my mouth and closed it.

It was real.

I racked my brain for several minutes to remember what night this could possibly be the result of. Were we drunk? Tired? Or maybe just plain stupid? Contraception is a strict rule, so strict that I won't even let Nicolas touch me without knowing he has something somewhere in the bedroom.

How the fuck am I already pregnant? I can't be pregnant.

I don't want to be pregnant.

I swallowed a gulp as I read that last sentence, feeling like a sharpened dagger had made its way through my breastbone. I matched the date of the entry with my birthday, and there was no denying this was the day my mother had found out she was pregnant with me.

No one had ever told me I was an accident, let alone an unwanted one.

I swallowed my pride and the few tears threatening to poke out of my eyes as I continued reading the journal entry, back and forth thoughts on whether and how to tell my father. Not at one point in the two pages of writing did I see a single happy musing at the thought of my existence.

I slammed the journal shut, forgetting about what I'd opened it for, and stepped outside onto my patio. I looked up at the bluish-black night sky and breathed out, trying to release my bottled-up anger. It wasn't over the fact I was unwanted—at least, originally—but the fact neither had ever told me. Instead, they'd made up joyful lies every time I'd asked about the story of my existence.

How many other lies had I been fed all these years? And who was the bigger liar?

At this point, I didn't care who it was—all I knew was that I was going to uncover every last one.

***

"What company do you intern for again, Colin?"

I looked up from my phone from where I was lounging on his comfortable leather sofa. He sat on the armchair next to me, his feet propped up on the coffee table.

"InTech Group, why?" he asked and took another sip of coffee. It was pouring rain outside, the hallmark thunder and lightning of August rainstorms startling me every few minutes. "You thinking of applying there?"

I blinked. "You mean to tell me you work with my dad and Cassandra?"

"Well, I don't work with them," he said. "The firm has, like, a million practice groups. But you know...maybe I should start sucking up to him for the rest of the internship so I can get in on all the Haddad family secrets."

Oh, trust me, I'm trying to get in on those, too. Not giving him an answer, I redirected my interest to my phone, where I was too busy admiring the exotic vacations all my friends from college seemed to have taken this year.

He sighed and leaned forward on his elbows. "You ever thought of looking up that dude your dad's girlfriend's probably fucking?"

"Vulgar," I snapped, narrowing my eyes at him. "But no. How would I even know his name?"

"Oh, come on, it's the twenty-first century. Find a way." Pointing his cup of coffee at my phone, he added, "I bet you're on social media right now."

"Well, you're not wrong," I muttered and X-ed out of Facebook. Opening Instagram, I searched all possible variants of Cassandra's handle, finding her fourth on the list of results. I scrolled through her page, finding nothing special—photos of her lounging on the beach with her modelesque figure in a string bikini, some posing with her cute corgi in her backyard, a couple high quality bridesmaid shots.

"Any gold mines?"

"No. She has the Instagram page of every millennial white woman."

I clicked on her tagged photos and opened a different world: work functions, bar selfies, and one very distinct photo: her and our mystery man.

I looked up. "Man-she-is-probably-fucking has a name: Ethan Choi."

Colin narrowed his eyes at his phone, rapidly typing. A couple clicks later, he came up with something. "Hm, his Linkedin says he's the founder and CEO of a small tech startup in the Bay Area—so everyone in the Bay. Yup, he definitely knows Cassandra. She endorsed all his skills. And wow, he even got his bachelor's and master's from MIT."

"Says the kid who goes to Harvard," I mumbled but perked up. "Wait. Don't you realize something?"

"What?"

I sat up, adjusting my T-shirt that had somehow become a crop top. "Here's the situation. Cassandra is dating Ethan, a good-looking guy right around her age from the same part of the country she's from. Suddenly, she's interested in my father, a worn-out forty-four-year-old with a daughter that could be her sister, who told me in her own words she has no intention of ever settling down with him."

"The bitch is a snitch," he finished for me, clapping his hands together. Pausing for a moment, he added, "Oh wow, that rhymed."

I ran my hands through my tousled thick hair and dropped them against my sides. "Of all women, was my dad really that dumb?"

"I mean, I don't know, she is kinda hot—"

"Colin," I snapped, shooting him a glare, "you're supposed to be on my side. I want to end this bitch now."

He stood up and planted a palm on my shoulder. "She might have already ended herself without even knowing it."

***

"Hanna, can you pass me the salt?"

I shoved the tall bottle across the table to my father, watching as he dumped it over his bowl of tabbouleh for the third time tonight. He hadn't said a word since we'd sat down, picking up and dropping his spoon as he stared off into the distance. He'd taken off his glasses, leaving two exhausted brown eyes for me to stare into.

I opened my mouth, but only air came out. I was having trouble discerning what was on his mind, but if I questioned it, I feared he might blow.

And my dad never exploded in front of me.

"Dad, what's wrong?"

He looked up and rubbed his eyes, resting his elbows on the table. "Nothing that's your fault."

"Well, if it's not mine, then who's is it?"

"Cassandra," he replied, uttering the Devil's nickname. "Most of the time I don't consider myself old, but I should have thought twice when a woman like her gave me the time of day."

"Did you find out she was—?" I stopped myself when I realized he still had more say, and I had a feeling it wasn't what I was going to tell him.

"She ended it over a text—wait, what did you say?"

My lips parted and my eyes widened, a tell-tale sign I was fumbling for a lie. I took a gulp of water and composed myself. "Nothing. It's nothing."

"She was what?" my dad echoed, leaning slightly across the table. "You were going to say something. She was what?" His tone rose with each word, and my heartbeat accelerated with it.

My dad never, ever scared me, not even when he yelled at me.

Why was I scared?

I sucked in a shallow breath and pulled out my phone from my back pocket. He quirked a brow, following my hands as they flew across my screen. I sent the video of Cassandra and Ethan to him, hoping for the best, expecting the worst. He heard his text tone and turned his phone upside down on the table. He said nothing as he opened the video and watched it, once and then twice. His eyes trailed upwards, boring into mine for a few moments before any words slipped from his mouth.

"Where did you get this?"

"I didn't get it from anywhere," I said, mimicking his eerily tranquil tone. "I witnessed it. She was cheating on you this whole time."

He watched it once more before sliding his phone across the table. It landed an inch from the edge, an inch from clattering against the floor and shattering, just like his heart. He folded his arms over his chest, running his hand down the length of his beard.

"How long did you know?"

"A week or so."

"And you didn't tell me? Why would you hide that from me, Hanna?"

I swallowed a large gulp, losing some of my respect for him at the accusatory tone. As if it was my fault Cassandra had left him.

Bravery surged through my veins as I leaned over the table. "Can you imagine the things you've hidden from me all these years? What's a video from you for one week?"

"Don't be snarky," he snapped, dropping his hand to the table with a jolt. I jumped back but didn't lose my resolve. "I am still your father."

Men, I thought. Their egos were so fragile, one would imagine their skin was made of eggshells, able to be cracked with a single wrong touch.

"I said nothing to disrespect you. Don't project your anger on me because you're mad your girlfriend is a whore."

He held up his finger. "Don't talk about her like that."

I snorted, rising from the table with an ounce left of respect. "You're going to defend her? Who are you right now?" When he said nothing, his eyes trained on the white wall across from him, I shook my head. "Maybe I'm starting to understand why Mom left you all those years ago."

"Don't bring your mother into this," he spat, standing up as well. "You were too young to understand what happened, Hanna."

I took a step forward, leaning my palms on the wooden table. "But am I too young now, Dad? Is twenty too young to know why your 'picture-perfect' marriage crumbled into a million pieces? Why you couldn't look her in the eye the last time you saw her two years ago, if that even was the last time? Because it was the last time I did."

He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, releasing an angry puff of air from his nose. "This isn't about your mother, Hanna. And if you seem so worried about her, you can go live with her for the rest of the summer. She's only an hour away."

"How dare you," I scoffed, holding back tears. I cared more if he saw me cry than if Jesse did, and that spoke volumes. "You have no right to speak to me like that, Dad." A couple of tears slid down my cheeks, meeting the backs of my hands.

He swallowed a long gulp, gripping the sides of the chair in front of me so hard, the wood seemed like it would splinter. "Sometimes," he began, looking away from me for a moment. "Sometimes I wish your mother and I never had you. What good have the both of us done for you all your life?"

"You d-don't really mean th-that," I stammered, my eyes welling up even more. When he didn't respond, I backed away from him, swallowing the golf-sized ball lump in my throat. "So, I really was a mistake, wasn't I? Just some tragic accident that destroyed Mom's career and all the chances for you to sleep with women after she left you? Isn't that the truth?"

"Hanna, I didn't mean it that way—"

"Well, I meant it that way."

I turned around and ran to the stairs. I couldn't stay in that kitchen before I said even more things, things I didn't actually mean for once. Fighting another round of tears, I changed out of my lounge clothes and grabbed my bag from my closet. I hurried down the stairs and back to the front entrance, yanking the heavy door open to a world of torrential rain.

As I did, I could make out my father, from the cracks between the open layout of each room of the house. Still at the kitchen table, his head fell between his arms and his shoulders shook, sobs muffled by the material of his sweater.

I swallowed the lump in my throat again and left him to suffer, my heart finally as cold as stone.