“I don’t want to argue.”
“I don’t either.”
He cleared his throat.
“I probably should have asked.”
I waited.
“We all should have.”
“Yes.”
“Hannah got everybody excited.”
“That’s not really the issue.”
“I know.”
He became quiet.
Then he said, “I saw your message in the group.”
“Which one?”
“The one where you said you had plans.”
I closed my eyes.
“So you knew.”
“Yes.”
“And you still drove six hours.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He was quiet for a long time.
“Because your mother said you’d come around.”
There it was.
Dad did not sound proud.
He sounded tired.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
I believed him.
But belief did not restore the spare key.
“I appreciate that.”
“Are we okay?”
“No.”
He inhaled.
“But that doesn’t mean we never will be.”
“I guess that’s fair.”
It was the most honest conversation my father and I had had in years.
The following week, I drove to Michigan.
Nothing had been damaged.
The porch looked exactly as I left it.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar and coffee.
I opened the glass doors and let fresh air move through the living room.
For two weeks, I stayed there.
I worked remotely when I needed to.
Read.
Sat on the dock.
Ryan visited for a weekend.
One evening he stood beside me on the porch while the sun dropped behind the trees.
“You think they’ll understand eventually?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you need them to?”
That was harder.
“I used to.”
“And now?”
I looked at the lake.
“No.”
Summer passed.
The calls slowed.
I muted the family chat, then eventually left it.
Not to punish anyone.
Because I had begun noticing how often I opened it with my shoulders already tense.
Work improved.
My concentration returned.