Then I saw headlights behind me in the rear view mirror. Someone had pulled out of the driveway in a rush.
That’s when I realized my dad had left.
He’d physically left the house on Christmas night.
I’d never seen him do that. Not once. He was the guy who carved the turkey, passed the rolls, gave the toasts, the centerpiece of the whole thing.
“Ryan,” he said again, breathless now. “Wait for me.”
And just like that, the hollow in my chest started to twist.
Not into hope. No, not yet. But into something else, because I suddenly had a feeling that whatever came next, it wasn’t going to be quiet or easy.
And what he was about to tell me, that was going to change everything.
I pulled into a gas station parking lot about a mile down the road. The place was mostly dark, just the flickering buzz of one overhead light and the glowing red numbers of a lottery sign that hadn’t been updated since Halloween.
I parked near the edge, right beside an old dumpster, and cut the engine. Snow was settling on the windshield, forming delicate outlines like frostbite lace.
I didn’t turn on the heat.
A minute later, a car swerved into the lot.
My dad’s silver Subaru.
It screeched slightly as it came to a stop beside me. The door flew open and there he was, jacket barely zipped, one glove on, the other clenched in his fist.
He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there outside my car, chest heaving. His face was red from the cold, or maybe something else. He looked older, smaller somehow, under the parking lot lights.
I cracked my window. “You okay?”
He nodded, then gestured frantically.
“Get out, please. I need to talk to you. Not through glass.”
I hesitated, but finally stepped out.
The wind bit hard. Snow stuck in my hair, melted on my neck. He looked at me like he hadn’t seen me in years.
And maybe in a way he hadn’t.
“She told you we didn’t want you there?” he asked.
His voice was tight, controlled fury, like every word was holding back a wave.
“She said to go ruin someone else’s holiday,” I replied.
He flinched just barely.
“That wasn’t us. That wasn’t me. I didn’t even know you were at the door. I was carving the stupid turkey when Melanie leaned over and whispered, ‘Don’t worry. Aunt Dorene handled Ryan.’ I didn’t understand what she meant until it clicked. Until I saw the empty seat at the end of the table.”
I crossed my arms. “Handled. Huh?”
He looked sick.
“Ryan, you have to understand. Ever since your mom passed, Dorine’s wormed her way into everything. Holidays decisions. She’s got this twisted idea that Melanie’s the golden child. And you?”