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Chapter Title: Scene One, Take One
Hope POV
I stared at the half-empty teacup on the patio table, swirling the liquid with a spoon that barely clinked. The late afternoon sun bathed everything in a golden haze — the backyard, the orange blossoms, the edges of Dad's worn-out book resting beside him.
He hadn't looked up in a while, too engrossed in whatever thriller he was reading this week. I chewed on the inside of my cheek, rehearsing the words in my head like lines in a play. Ironically appropriate.
"Dad," I said finally, voice soft but firm.
He glanced up, eyes sharp, like he'd been expecting me to say something important. Dad always saw through me. No matter how grown I thought I'd become, I was still his little girl to him. But today… I needed him to see me differently.
"I want to tell you something. And I need you to really listen. No interrupting, no logical rebuttals, no dad-mode."
He set the book down slowly, arching an amused eyebrow. "That sounds serious."
"It is."
He leaned back in the chair and folded his arms. "Alright. No interrupting. Go."
I took a breath, then dove in. "I want to be an actress."
His expression didn't change. Not immediately. But something behind his eyes flickered. A kind of silent processing, the way computers buffer when you hit them with too much data at once.
I kept going, filling the silence. "Not just like a hobby. I want to do it seriously. Theater, maybe screen. I've been taking classes at the campus studio after lectures, and I joined this indie production last semester. We did The Glass Menagerie, and I played Laura. I—" I paused, heart racing. "It felt like I belonged there. More than anywhere else."
He nodded slowly but didn't speak yet. Still giving me the space.
"I'm not asking you to love it," I added. "But I am asking for your support. I've mapped out a plan — take acting courses full-time after graduation, audition for local productions, maybe move to Lagos or even London eventually if things work out. I know it's risky. I know it's not law or medicine or some stable nine-to-five. But I've never felt more certain about anything."
I looked at him, eyes searching. "Please say something now."
He exhaled. "You sure?"
"Yes."
"Completely sure? Not just a phase?"
"I've been sure since I was fifteen and played Juliet in school. I just didn't know how to tell you."
He rubbed his jaw slowly, eyes locked on mine. "Hope… you've always had this fire in you. Since you were a toddler. Stubborn, opinionated, passionate. But you're also sensitive. Acting's not just lights and applause. It's rejection. It's criticism. It's—"
"Living a thousand lives in one," I interrupted softly. "Yes. And I want all of it. Even the hard parts."
He was quiet again, and I let him be. I knew my father. He wasn't the type to yell or react emotionally. He processed in layers, quietly. Like unfolding a letter line by line.
"I always thought you'd end up in politics," he said eventually. "You speak well, you have presence."
"I'm too honest for politics."
That made him laugh.
I smiled too, relieved to hear it.
"Look," he said, finally leaning forward. "I'm not against it. I'm not even surprised. But I'm your father. It's my job to worry. To want security for you."
"I get that," I said. "But security can't mean suffocation."
That made him pause. He studied me, really studied me — my calm, the still-set determination in my voice, the way I wasn't asking for permission. Just his blessing.
"You sound like your mother," he muttered.
"Is that a compliment?"
"It is. She chased her passion too. Her art. Built an empire from it."
"She'll understand."
"She always does," he murmured.
I sat back in my chair, letting the warmth of the sun soak into my skin. I didn't want to fight about this. I wanted him to see me — all of me. Not just his daughter, but the woman I'd become. Someone with dreams too big to bottle up.
He reached for his tea, took a sip, then set it back down.
"You'll finish your degree?"
"Yes," I nodded. "I only have a few months left."
"And after that?"
"I give it everything. Auditions. Classes. Nights reading scripts and days doubting myself, probably. But I'll be doing what I love."
He looked at me again — not with disappointment or fear, but something heavier. Pride. That silent, steady pride I'd only seen a few times before. When I got into college. When I gave my speech at graduation. When I helped Mom sell her first major painting.
"Alright," he said finally. "You have my support."
Relief bloomed in my chest like spring.
"But," he added, lifting a finger, "you're not allowed to give up the moment it gets hard. You commit, Hope. You commit fully."
"I will," I said, heart pounding.
"And no dropping everything to run off for some unknown film shoot in another country without talking to us first."
"Dad—"
"I'm serious. Let us worry a little. It's in our DNA."
I laughed, and so did he.
"Thank you," I said, standing up and walking over to him. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders from behind, and he patted my hand with that soft but protective way he always had.
"I just want you to be happy," he said quietly.
"I already am."
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