Chapter 23 - Father and DaughterEdmund visited Celeste for the first time eighteen months into her sentence.
He had delayed intentionally.
He did not want to go from guilt.
Or pressure.
Or the belief that a father must immediately make his daughter feel better.
He went when he could tell the truth without trying to fix her reaction.
Celeste entered the visiting room.
Her hair was shorter.
Her face thinner.
She sat.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hello, Celeste.”
Silence.
Then:
“How’s Tyler?”
“Growing.”
“Does he hate me?”
Edmund sighed.
“I won’t speak for him.”
Celeste nodded.
“That sounded like Lydia.”
“It probably is.”
A faint smile.
Then quiet again.
Celeste looked at her hands.
“I read Mom’s letter every week.”
“I’m sorry I kept it from you.”
“I’m still angry.”
“You should be.”
She looked surprised.
Edmund continued:
“I decided you couldn’t handle it.”
“You always did that.”
“Yes.”
“Then when I wanted control, you treated me like I was irrational.”
“Sometimes you were.”
Celeste almost laughed.
“Still you.”
“Apparently.”
She looked toward the wall.
“Do you think I became like this because of you?”
Edmund considered carefully.
“I think I made mistakes that made some of your patterns easier to continue.”
Celeste waited.
“But I did not make your choices for you.”
Her eyes filled.
“That’s fair.”
“You stole.”
“Yes.”
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
“You hurt Tyler.”
Celeste’s voice broke.
“Yes.”
Edmund leaned forward.
“And I still love you.”
She began crying.
For years, Celeste imagined confession would destroy love.
Instead, love survived.
Access did not.
Trust did not.
Freedom did not.
But love did.
That distinction was almost unbearable.
“Does Tyler know you came?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it was okay.”
Celeste wiped her face.
“Did he ask you to tell me anything?”
Edmund hesitated.
“Yes.”
She looked up quickly.
“What?”
“He said Steve is getting taller.”
Celeste frowned.
“Who is Steve?”
“The maple tree.”
For the first time in nearly two years, Celeste laughed.
A real laugh.
Then Edmund explained.
They had planted the tree near the garden bed.
Celeste became quiet again.
“Did he choose it?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
She looked at Edmund.
“I don’t want that place to stay mine.”
“It doesn’t.”
Celeste nodded.
That might have been the closest thing to peace available.
Before leaving, Edmund asked:
“Why flowers?”
She understood immediately.
The garden.
“I needed the ground to look finished before you came home.”
“That’s all?”
“Yes.”
No symbolism.
No elaborate reason.
Just concealment.
Edmund had spent months wondering.
Sometimes the most traumatic details had no profound meaning to the person who caused them.
The flowers mattered because Tyler remembered them.
Celeste had simply needed camouflage.
That difference helped Edmund stop searching for poetry inside cruelty.
As he stood, Celeste said:
“Dad.”
He turned.
“I used to think Tyler took you from me.”
Edmund waited.
She whispered:
“He didn’t.”
“No.”
“I know.”
Edmund left.
Not healed.
May you like
Not reconciled.
But no longer carrying a question Celeste had finally answered herself.
