For me, college had just been the logical next step for my life.
A simple enough choice, yet I can still remember the way Dad’s face tightened as those acceptance letters and scholarship offers began to arrive one by one.
He never said“don’t go,”never even tried to sway me into staying here after I graduated, but he also didn’t bother to hide the heartbreak that shadowed his eyes each time he asked me which school I thought I’d choose, knowing full well they were all states away.
I told myself I was chasing an opportunity, a future that couldn’t be found in a small town like this one.
But now I wonder if all I had really wanted was distance.
Not from him,neverfrom him, but from myself.
Maybe from the version of me that never quite belonged to this place, and to every memory of my old life that still clings to me.
The air bites hard when I eventually open the car door. I breathe in deeply, pulling in the woodsmoke peppering the air from the neighbor’s chimney next door.
Grabbing my single duffle, I let out a soft grunt as I haul it over my shoulder.
The weight tugs uneven against my back, a reminder of how much I’ve whittled down my life to fit into one bag.
My hip bumps the car door shut, the metallic thud echoing slightly. Shoes scuffing against the sidewalk, I make the slow walk up to the front steps.
Warmth greets me when I step inside.
After setting my duffle down by the door, I go back for a small load of groceries, baking supplies I know Dad won’t have, then hurry inside.
I kick off my shoes and let the door swing closed behind me.
The living room unfolds ahead, dim in the faded light.
The recliner sits at the same angle it always has pointed toward the TV.
The crocheted blanket Mom made before I was born, edges fraying from years of use, is still draped neatly over the back of the couch.
On the coffee table, there’s a ring from a forgotten mug, and scatterings of unopened mail with Dad’s reading glasses perched on top of a half-finished crossword.
“Dad?” I call out.
The only thing that greets me is silence.
I imagine him here, filling the house with his low voice and slippered footsteps, maybe already setting a pot of chili on the stove the way he always did after school on Friday nights. Instead, the quiet stretches around me.
For a split second, I feel like an intruder in my own childhood home.
My phone buzzes from my pocket, startling me.
Pulling it out, I glance at the screen, smiling a little at the caller ID.
My thumb swipes over the screen quickly.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, kiddo.” His voice comes through the other end warmly, but there’s a ragged edge to it that I don’t like. “Settle in okay?”
I glance around the living room again, to the empty recliner and the untouched kitchen beyond. “Where are you? I just walked in and saw you weren’t here. Thought I’d be walking into a welcome banner and everything.”
He exhales, and I catch the faint crackle of radio chatter in the background. “I wanted to be there, believe me. Got a call right as I was heading to the grocery store a little while ago. Apartment building caught fire downtown, whole crew’s been called in. I can’t leave until my guys come back. Someone’s gotta be here to man the station while they’re out.”
I can picture him moving around that station with the same confidence he’s always had over the years—barking orders, double-checking gear, answering incoming calls while the sirens wail.
