After the pitiful sorry-fest I had endured, the next day I picked myself up, went to work and drove straight to my parents’ house right after, without apology, just how my mother had done in my car. My mom answered the door, but I was beyond pissed off to talk to her. I wasn't talking to her ever if I had a choice.

This was about owning up to my feelings, my life and living through actions, not words. So, as I straightened my back and stomped into my house, I knew without a doubt that I was going to tell my father that Roland and I were over. Cade or not.

I marched past her and to my father's favorite place in our whole house, the plush leather recliner in front of the television. His eyes were trained on the TV, and he hadn’t noticed my arrival. He was slouched in his chair, looking a little frail, which made me stop midstep. For one brief nanosecond, I debated if I was doing the right thing, but then I shook my head and pushed forward.

"Angelica," my mother called out. "I'd like to talk to you for a second." Her voice was soft, resigned, but I ignored her. I was done with her manipulation.

"I'm here for Dad," I said sternly without looking back.

My dad laughed, his whole belly shaking. "Is it me or did the temperature in the room just drop?"

I turned to my mother, jaw tense. "I want to talk to Dad alone."

"Honey ..." She stood at the living room archway, looking meek, but I wasn’t falling for it.

I raised one hand to stop her. "Don’t, Mom." Damn it. The back of my throat burned. My hands clenched, my nails biting into my palms. I was so angry, I was on the verge of tears. I tore my gaze away, not wanting her to witness my weakness. "Alone, please." I wished I was stronger. I wished I could’ve been a bitch, mouth off so I could hurt her, just like she hurt me, but I couldn't. Because it was taking every ounce of energy to simply shut her out.

"He knows, Angelica,” she said finally. “Your father knows. I told him."

I blinked up at her, never more shocked in all my life. My gaze split between her unreadable face and my father's amused one.

He nodded, then his face softened before he took my hand. "Where is this handsome guy and when do I get to meet him?"

My head jerked back from the shock. Immediately I paced the room, my emotions a jumbled ball of havoc. She told him? He knows? And he’s not even asking about Roland; he’s asking about Cade.

My voice was hoarse and small. "Don't you want to know what happened with me and Roland? With Mom, with the night I got engaged?"

He sighed, his age-old wisdom showing on his face. "I was there at your engagement, sweetheart, and I didn't see my happy Angie." He motioned me forward. "When Roland asked you to marry him, you know what you did?" He lowered his head and guilt rose to the surface of his brown irises. "You looked directly at me like it was my decision. Why would you look at me when Roland was asking you one very important question, especially when it wasn’t my decision to make?" His forehead crinkled, and it took all my self-control not to reach over and smooth out the wrinkles. "I just want to ask you one thing. Does this man, this new guy ... does he make you happy?"

I nodded with a fierceness that was mirrored in my soul. "Completely, blissfully happy." I choked on my words, knowing that it didn't matter anymore because he was gone. He had made his decision. Cade wasn't mine anymore.

Dad smiled warmly, his eyes shining with emotion. "That's all that matters to me. Why would you think it wouldn't?" Then he gripped my hand, giving it a tight squeeze. "I love you, Angelica. All I ever want for you is happiness."

Big fat tears flowed down my cheeks like a river into a lake, and I bowed my head as tremors overtook me. My father pulled me closer with a tug. The gesture reminded me of those times when I was younger and had gotten hurt or a bad grade, and he’d been there to console me. "Angelica Michelle Armstrong, I know you're worried about me, but I want what you want, plain and simple."

He patted the back of my hair, taming the flyaways, soothing me.

"I ... I was scared,” I choked out. “With your surgery, with his family being there ..." I sounded like a blubbering mess. "And with Mom. I had felt like I had no choice.”

His voice lowered. "I already had a deep conversation with your mother."

"Angie ..." My mother began, but I held my hand up to stop her, wiping my tears which weren't for her to see.

"I don't want to hear it, Mom." I was tired. Tired of her and her games. I didn’t care if she apologized a thousand times or if she got on her knees. Maybe our relationship would be repaired in the future, but I needed some space for a while.

She cupped one hand over her mouth while the other hand held her elbow. I could tell she wanted resolution. Well, I wanted to go back in time. We didn’t always get what we wanted.

"One day you'll understand it," my father whispered to me. "The love you have for your child. The worry that never goes away. I'm definitely not saying what your mother did was right. It was wrong, and I think she realizes that."

A flash of grief tore through me, a huge, painful knot inside my chest.

"She only wants the best for you, and sometimes it leads her to be overbearing and controlling." His chest rumbled with a chuckle. "I know because she's the same way with me."

"Angie?" My mother’s voice was even smaller.

I lifted my head, finally meeting her gaze.

"I ... I'm sorry." Her words whooshed out, as though she was afraid to say it. "I love you, but ... this time I took it too far."

I nodded, unable to form words, afraid again of crying further. Eventually, I'd forgive her, but it would take time to heal us.

"Look at me, Angie,” he said, smiling. "I'm so proud of you, little girl. For the person you've become. And I want to meet this person who makes you blissfully happy."

The soreness in my chest spread to my throat and lungs, constricting my airways. "It's too late." I sniffled. "He was there last night." Memories of last night, his reaction, him walking away ran through my head like a horrid nightmare. "He saw at the restaurant. Saw Roland down on one knee. Saw it all. He's left me." I swallowed a sob that failed to escape. "It's over. It's too late." Everything was out in the open. I no longer had anything to hide, yet it was all for nothing now.

With a firmness in his gaze and a tip of my father's chin, he said, "It's only too late if you've given up."

I blinked up at him, feeling like I was six years old.

He leaned in and lifted my chin up with the lightness of his fingertip. "So, Angelica, have you given up?"