She wrote it as though she were removing something that had not already been taken piece by piece for years.
I sat at my laptop and wrote a short email.
Rebeca,
I will not apologize for deciding who has access to my property. I also do not want further contact with you, Jessica, or Nadia. I wish all of you well.
Dulce
I read it once.
Then sent it.
Afterward, I blocked their numbers.
Rebeca.
Jessica.
Nadia.
Then I stared at Dad’s contact.
My thumb hovered over it for almost a minute.
Blocking him hurt.
Not because I stopped loving him.
Because I needed to stop waiting for the version of my father who would finally choose me before the decision became inconvenient.
I blocked him too.
For several days, calls came from unfamiliar numbers.
I answered twice.
Rebeca once.
An older friend of hers another time.
“The family should be more important than pride.”
I ended the call.
I was finished defending myself to people who benefited from misunderstanding me.
A month passed.
One evening, I left work carrying my laptop bag and saw Dad standing beside my car.
He looked older.
Maybe he was.
Maybe I had finally stopped looking at him through the filter of being his daughter.
“Dulce.”
I stopped.
“How did you know where I parked?”
“You’ve parked in the same section for three years.”
That almost made me smile.
“What do you want?”
“Coffee.”
I said nothing.
“Ten minutes.”
He looked down.
“If you never want to speak to me again afterward, I’ll respect it.”
I agreed because despite everything, he was my father.
We walked to a small coffee shop across from my office.
Dad ordered black coffee.
Did not touch it.
I ordered tea.
For several minutes, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “I’m sorry.”
I waited.
“I’m sorry, Dulce.”
Still I waited.
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I stayed quiet too many times.”
My throat tightened.
“Why?”
“Because it was easier.”
That answer was painfully simple.
He looked at me.
“Every time Rebeca and you disagreed, I thought keeping the peace meant not taking sides.”
“You took a side.”
“I know.”
“No, Dad. You took a side every time you stayed quiet.”
He lowered his eyes.
“I know that now.”
I stared into my tea.
“When she took Mom’s pictures down, you said nothing.”
“I know.”
“When they stopped including me, you said nothing.”
“I know.”
“When Jessica used my house without permission, somehow I was the problem.”
He closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“And when Rebeca told me I wasn’t real family, you sat there.”
His voice was barely audible.
“I know.”
That was the sentence that finally made me cry.
Not a lot.
Enough.
Dad did not reach for me.
That mattered.
He let me be angry.
After a while, he said, “Those ten days were terrible.”
I laughed through my tears.
“Good.”
He almost smiled.
“I probably deserved that.”
“What happened?”
“Rebeca and the girls talked about you constantly.”
“Of course.”
“How selfish you were. How you ruined the trip. How unfair you had been.”
“And?”
“I kept thinking about the house.”
“What about it?”
“You weren’t there.”
I stared.
Dad swallowed.
“For years, every time something felt wrong, I told myself you were strong enough to handle it.”
I said nothing.
“That became an excuse.”
“Yes.”
“I told myself you had your own life.”
“Yes.”
“I told myself Rebeca needed space to build a family with me.”
“And I didn’t?”
His face broke slightly.
“You did.”
I looked out the window.
People were crossing the parking lot outside carrying grocery bags and gym backpacks.
Ordinary life.
Dad continued.
“I pushed you out because I thought you were the person least likely to leave me.”
That sentence hurt because it was probably true.
“You were wrong.”
“I know.”
He took a folded envelope from his jacket.
“What’s that?”
“Money.”
“I don’t want it.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you bring it?”
“To reimburse what you spent preparing for the trip.”
“No.”
“Dulce.”
“No.”
I pushed it back.
“If you want to make something right, don’t turn it into a reimbursement.”
He slowly put the envelope away.
“Okay.”
I studied him.
“Does Rebeca know you’re here?”
“No.”
“She sent you?”
“No.”
“She still thinks I should apologize?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not happening.”
“I know.”
“Are you going to ask me to unblock her?”
“No.”
I looked at him carefully.
He meant it.
“What do you want, then?”
“To be your father again.”
My throat tightened.
“You never stopped being my father.”
“That’s worse.”