When I was a little girl, I stopped expecting much from my father. He left when I was nine — not quietly, not gently, but by slamming the door on our family to chase a new life with a woman named Elaine. That night, I watched my mother pretend she wasn’t crying while doing dishes, while he packed bags in silence, muttering something about “finally living for himself.” What he really meant was: “I’m choosing her, not you.”
So I adjusted. Grew up. Learned how to keep my expectations tucked away like old photographs — visible, but never touched. And then, years later, he called.
He said he wanted to walk me down the aisle.
For a moment, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, he was ready to show up for real. That maybe, the man who left all those years ago had finally remembered how to be a father. Read more below
