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The front door creaked open, and my blood ran cold.
The place was almost empty. No couch. No TV. No photos on the walls. It felt like walking into a memory that had been erased. A neighbor saw me standing there and rushed over, eyes full of pity. She told me my dad had been in a terrible car crash. Multiple surgeries. He’d sold everything—everything—to pay hospital bills and stay alive.
When I saw him, tubes everywhere, face pale and thinner than I remembered, my knees nearly gave out. I broke down, sobbing, begging him to forgive me for leaving. For choosing my mother. For calling him a loser.
