It wasn't the way he looked because we didn't share a single feature that is alike. And it wasn't because I remembered growing up with him as I had no memories of my childhood, not really. Just scattered fragments, like shards of glass catching the light.
But there was something about his voice.
The smoothness of it. The careful rhythm. And suddenly... like a ghost rising from the deepest recesses of my memory, a moment resurfaced.
I was little. No more than three. Clutching my mother's dress as she argued with someone... and the person she argued with was none other than this man. I didn't see his face clearly back then, but I remembered his words. Cold, precise, laced with disdain:
"You are on your own. Not anyone can take the position of my wife."
The same voice. The same cruel distance masked behind polished civility.
My breath caught. I staggered back a step, not from the sight of the father I had finally met, but from the voice that had been etched in a forgotten corner of my heart.
I hadn't recognized him with my eyes.
I had recognized him with my scars.
Maybe it was the shock or perhaps it was the unforgiving sun beating down as I waited far too long for him to arrive. Fortunately or unfortunately, a wave of dizziness washed over me, and the world spun out of reach. Then, everything went dark.
***
I couldn't tell how long I'd been unconscious. But when I came to my senses, I was nestled in the back seat of a luxury car, the leather cool and buttery against my skin.
A voice broke the silence.
"You're awake?"
I turned toward the owner of the voice... the man called my father but I said nothing, just looking at him.
He frowned, just slightly. But his face quickly returned to a gentle expression.
"You fainted suddenly," he said, his voice showing concern which I could tell was fake.. "The director told me you were perfectly fine this morning but I'm still worried. I've already called our family doctor. He's waiting at the villa."
Such kindness. Such grace.
But I wasn't fooled anymore.
She remembered the way he stood that day with a straight arrogant posture and cold eyes. "I have nothing to do with you. Nor with her." Even if I was an ignorant three years old I could understand his words.
He left without looking back, severing whatever fragile bond might have existed. And now here he was, playing the role of a worried parent. As if his abandonment had never happened. As if my mother's tears and the years he was absent from my life were nothing
But now, I don't expect anything from him.
Now. Not love. No regret and especially I don't expect him to change.
He could create all kind of family stories or excuses but they will all be meaningless.
If I could call someone my family, it would be first my mother and then the people of the orphanage.
But now why did this father of mine come for me for?
It can't be that he really regret it?
Just when I was thinking and having doubt of him possibly regretting everything he did to us in the past, the man opened his mouth.
"Then before we reach our home, let me introduce your other family members."
He took out his mobile phone, scrolled in his image gallery and showed the faces of my two aunties and uncle then showed me another photo of a very young girl, perhaps she was 8 or 9 years old when she took this picture.
"This girl is your sister. Although the picture is old but because your sister hates taking pictures this is the only picture I have of her... Your sister is the same age as you. You're twins."
Twin sister?
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