Cassie, again.
I muted it.
Then it buzzed again.
Mom.
Then again, Dad.
I stepped outside and finally opened the group message.
A photo of my old apartment.
Cassie was standing in front of it again.
This time, she wasn’t alone.
Mom was there, too, arms crossed.
And dad, looking annoyed, like he had something better to do.
Below the photo, Cassie had written, “We’re here. Opened the door.”
My heart actually skipped.
They were there again.
Except this time, they didn’t think I was avoiding them.
They thought I was inside.
5 minutes later, another photo came in.
A box on the ground labeled toiletries.
Then a message.
“We’ll wait.”
That’s when I realized they were going to sit there.
All afternoon if they had to, maybe even longer.
So, I got in my car.
I didn’t head toward them.
I didn’t call.
I drove to a quiet parking lot two blocks away, turned off the engine, and sat.
Not because I didn’t know what to say, but because I was deciding whether or not to say anything at all.
The next hour changed everything, and it started when I saw my dad walking back toward the street without Cassie or mom and picking up his phone.
From the distance of my parked car, I watched dad pace along the sidewalk, phone to his ear, his other hand gesturing in those short sharp chops he always used when he was frustrated but pretending not to be.
I rolled the window down just slightly, just enough to hear the murmur of his voice drifting through the spring breeze.