Marrying My Father's Enemy-Chapter 74: Eira’s Diary 2: Her Father’s Tears
Chapter 74: Eira’s Diary 2: Her Father’s Tears
Chapter 74: Eira’s Diary 2: Her Father’s Tears
Eira zipped up her final bag and set it by the door.
She glanced around the small apartment one last time.
She was leaving again—this time with more on her shoulders than she cared to admit.
A knock at the door broke her train of thought.
She opened it to find Callian standing there, his hands shoved into his coat pockets.
His dark eyes studied her carefully.
"Ready?" he asked.
She nodded, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Let’s go."
He grabbed her bag without a word and led her to the car waiting outside.
There was an awkward silence between them, broken only by the sound of the engine.
Callian kept his eyes on the road, but he glanced at Eira every now and then.
She was staring out the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.
"You okay?" he asked quietly.
She gave a small shrug. "I’m fine."
Callian didn’t press further. Something was off, but he knew better than to push her when she wasn’t ready to talk.
After a while, they were back home.
Eira stepped into the spacious living room and let out a long breath.
Everything felt too big, too open. She dropped her bag near the couch and made her way to the bedroom.
Once inside, she sank onto the bed, leaning back against the headboard.
She closed her eyes, trying to shake off the strange emotions building inside her.
A few minutes later, Callian walked in, a steaming cup of tea in his hands. He set it on the nightstand and sat down beside her.
"You’ve been quiet," he said softly. "What’s going on?"
Eira opened her eyes and looked at him. His expression was calm, but she could see the worry hiding behind it.
"Nothing," she said, reaching for the tea. "Just tired."
Callian raised an eyebrow. "I don’t buy that."
She smirked, taking a sip of the tea. The warmth spread through her, easing some of the tension. "Something funny happened, that’s all."
"Funny?" he asked, tilting his head. "What kind of funny?"
"The kind I’d rather keep to myself," she said with a small laugh.
Callian didn’t laugh with her. "Eira..."
She sighed, setting the cup down. "I just... I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Not yet."
He studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. But when you’re ready, you’ll tell me, right?"
"Maybe," she teased, the corner of her mouth lifted.
Callian leaned back. "You know, you’re terrible at hiding things."
"I’m better than you think," she said, stretching out her legs.
He smiled faintly, standing up. "Sure you are. Just don’t forget I’m here when you need to spill whatever ’funny’ thing you’re keeping inside."
Eira watched him leave the room, her smile faded as soon as he was out of sight.
She wasn’t ready to tell him—not yet. For now, her ’family’ was hers to carry alone.
>___<
Henry stormed into the house with a coat that was still damp from the rain.
He didn’t bother to greet anyone, not even the staff who scurried out of his way.
He passed through the hallway, ignoring Vanesa’s call from the living room, and headed straight to his study.
Once inside, he shut the door and locked it with a sharp twist of the key.
The silence of the room was finally giving him peace.
He walked to his desk and placed the diary carefully on its polished surface.
For a moment, he hesitated.
His hands rested on the leather cover. Did he really want to read this? Did he want to know the words his daughter had written as a child, the truths he had ignored for so long?
With a heavy breath, he opened the diary.
The first few pages were filled with messy handwriting, the kind of scrawl only a child could create.
The words were uneven, but the emotions behind them were sharp and clear.
// Eira’s Diary. \
"Today, I cried in the bathroom again. I didn’t want Marion to hear me, so I covered my mouth with my hands, but the sobs wouldn’t stop. My chest hurt so much. It feels like it always hurts."
Henry’s stomach tightened as he read the words, his breath caught in his throat.
"At school, my teacher called me stupid in front of everyone. He made me stand up and read, and when I stuttered, he laughed. Everyone laughed. I hate him. I hate school. I wish someone would tell him to stop, but no one cares."
Henry’s hands shook as he turned the page.
"I saw Daddy on TV today. He was holding a girl’s hand and smiling. She looked so happy. I wonder what it feels like to have a father hug you. Does it make you feel safe? Does it make the pain go away?"
The words blurred as tears filled Henry’s eyes. He blinked them away and forced himself to keep reading.
"I asked Konrad to play with me, but he said I was annoying and pushed me. Arnold laughed and called me a baby. I wish they liked me. I wish anyone liked me."
The next page was smudged, as though Eira had been crying when she wrote it.
"Marion tries so hard to take care of me, but she’s tired. I can see it. I don’t want to make her sad, so I don’t tell her when I’m hurt. But I wish Mama was here. I don’t remember her face anymore, but I dream about her sometimes. In my dreams, she hugs me. I think she loved me, even though she’s gone."
Henry clenched his jaw, his throat burned as he swallowed hard.
"Daddy, if you ever read this, I want you to know I waited for you. Every night, I waited. I told myself you’d come back. But you didn’t. And now, I don’t know if you ever will."
Henry leaned back in his chair, the diary slipped from his hands onto the desk.
He covered his face with his palms, his chest was moving up and down as if it was hard to breathe.
The words felt like knives, each one was cutting deeper than the last.
He hadn’t known.
Or maybe he had and chose to ignore it.
But these pages told a different story—a story of loneliness, pain, and a desperate need for love he had never given.
The tears he had tried to hold back finally fell, hot and silent.
He wanted to stop reading, but he couldn’t. His trembling hands picked up the diary again, flipping to the next page.
"I wish my parents protected me. I wish they saw me. I wish I mattered to someone."
The words blurred again as Henry’s vision swam.
He dropped the diary back onto the desk and pressed his hands flat against the wood, his breaths ragged.
He had failed her. In every possible way, he had failed her.
For the first time in years, Henry Blackwood felt powerless.
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