he knocked.
When I opened the door, he stood there wearing the same stubborn expression I remembered, only older.
“Pack what you need.”
Those were his first real words to me in five years.
Not hello.
Not how are you.
Not even I missed you.
Just an order.
I stared at him.
“You drove four hours to tell me to pack?”
“I drove four hours because someone needs to take you home.”
“Home from what?”
His eyes moved past me into the apartment.
“This.”
I almost laughed.
He had no idea what “this” actually was.
For five years, Dad had imagined my life without ever seeing it.
In his mind, I was trapped in a tiny apartment caring for a permanently sick boyfriend, surrounded by bills and regret.
I stepped aside.
“Come in.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Go ahead,” I said. “See exactly what you think you’re rescuing me from.”
Dad
