Mom left when I was five. Dad worked four jobs just to keep the lights on and food on the table. I was too young and angry to understand. I called him a loser to his face, resenting the long hours and the exhaustion that kept him from school events and birthdays.
When I turned seventeen, Mom returned with a wealthy new husband and a polished life. She offered me everything Dad never could—nice clothes, a big house, and the promise of an easier future. I chose her without hesitation. Dad never called after that. I assumed he was simply mad and too proud to reach out.
Ten weeks later I was back in town and decided to visit him. The house looked the same from the outside, but when I walked through the door my blood ran cold. The living room was almost empty. Most of the furniture was gone. Boxes sat stacked in the corners. On the kitchen table lay a stack of medical bills and a small pile of unpaid notices. Dad sat in his old recliner, thinner than I remembered, a blanket over his legs. He looked up with quiet surprise, not anger.
