Dear diary,
Since last week’s realisations about gratitude and family, I decided to swallow my pride and contact my parents. I thought that, perhaps, rekindling our relationship is not their duty as parents, but my own as a child. It had been long enough, did I really want to carry this grudge to the grave?
Something you must know about my family- something I’ve kept hidden from everyone in my life is their immense influence. The story everyone else knows, including my children, is the one of my disowning after I fell pregnant with Sunil.
I tell everyone that my father is an office worker, but in reality, he’s a media giant who owns, inarguably, the largest media outlet in the country. The company, inherited of course, was a dark cloud over my family for all my life. One wrong move, anything short of perfection was enough to tear up generations of success and decorum.
Everyone wants to feel in control, and for many, my father was the perfect means to attain that. Those who wished desperately to maintain or create a falsified public image would often resort to threats against my own family to get exactly what they wanted. Countless times, I can recall my father in his office, consulting with his lawyer-possibly preemptively planning damage control. Even as a child, peering past my mother’s beloved Tuscan columns, I could sense the restrained, yet immense tension in that room. To this day, the sharp smell of shoe polish that always seemed to surround Mr. Daniels instills some sense of fear within me. Even so, my father decided to keep my family in the public eye, using our heavily devised and pristine image as a moral shield.
When my parents found out I was pregnant, their priorities continued to remain on the business which, at the time, was bringing in record-breaking numbers. Weeks after my public appearances ceased, my parents alerted the rest of the media that their only daughter passed away suddenly in her sleep. A very intimate funeral was to be held for me.
Quickly and quietly, my father changed my
name and closed the door on me forever. Without the dazzle that emanates from my parents or the glow of haute couture, no one really picked up on the fact that I was the deceased daughter of the media giant.
It was only yesterday that I worked up the courage to visit my mother and father again, clutching onto my newfound bravery in case it disappeared again.
As I turned their street corner, it was like I could recall every second of my youth. Memories I had forced into the crevices of my mind were suddenly rising to the surface. Sitting in their driveway, I noticed that the oak tree that covered my bedroom window with its canopy looked smaller than I remembered; my childhood swing still hanging- untouched.
It took everything in me to not turn back.
My mother opened the door for me, but before recognising her face, I recognised her footsteps. The fast-paced clacking on marble was never a comforting sound.
My mother, an adored socialite, was someone I’d see on television or in the papers from time to time. I’d watched her life from afar, but seeing her so close, I couldn’t help but notice our similarities. Straight, jet black hair reaching the waist, her’s finely streaked with grey. Round brown eyes, her’s slightly brighter.
She pulled me into a hug.
With my father, the two of us sat in their lavish lounge. The stiff leather sofa and the cowhide rug bringing back more discomfort than I remember. Although we mainly sat in silence, I could feel my parent’s eyes slowly examining me, as if they might be able to tell exactly what kind of person I’ve become without actually speaking to me.
Although my father broke the silence, our conversation consisted almost entirely of small talk. I can’t blame them, I think I’d be stunned to silence if I were them too.
My father walked me to my car. As I left, he pushed a piece of paper into my hand. I’d told him profusely that I didn’t want any financial help. Expecting a pity cheque, I looked into my palm.
Their phone number.
Anika.
