He’s supposed to be three years into retirement already, but he’s never been able to stay away from that place for long.
It doesn’t matter that he has the plaque, the pension, or the recognition.
The station is still his heartbeat.
He’s still got his police scanner at home—the one I used to complain about when it kept me up at night screeching into the early morning hours—which means he knows everything that happens in this town before most people do.
Whichalsomeans when a bad call comes in, he’s already up and heading out the door like he never left.
Being a former fire chief has made it impossible for him to let go.
Part of me thinks ever since I left for school, he’s needed something steady, something that doesn’t change or leave for bigger and brighter things.
The job is the only constant he knows how to hold onto, the only thing that fills the space Mom and I left behind.
Normally, I don’t say anything.
I wouldn’t want to cage him in, not after all the years he spent running into burning buildings while the rest of us stayed safe outside.
And god knows I’d hate for him to be stuck in this house with nothing but the ghosts of old photographs to keep him company.
But times like this are when I wish he would finally hand over the reins, pass the torch, and live the retirement he’s earned instead of chasing the calls that keep pulling him back in.
Still, I bite my tongue.
What good would it do to nag him?
Instead, we chat for a bit. I tell him about the drive back, how the heater in my car only half-works unless I smack it—something he offers to fix the moment he gets home.
I tell him about the endless finals week I barely crawled out of, and the gas station cashier who tried to sell me three bags of suspicious looking turkey jerky “for the low, low price of two” like it was the deal of the century.
Dad laughs with that deep, gruff sound that always used to echo through the house when I was little, and for a moment I feel lighter.
When I ask how he’s been, he answers with that same casual tone that always means he’s trying to downplay something.
“Some of my old buddies are in town for the weekend. Came down for my birthday to celebrate me turning the big 4-5. They’re staying at that hotel by the interstate. You know, the one with that half broken sunset sign out front.”
I sit up straighter, surprised. “Oh yeah? How’s that going?”
He snorts. “Terrible. Guess the place is a total dump. First room had dirty sheets, second room’s water heater broke. They’re making the best of it, but it’s not exactly five-star service.”
I shake my head. “Why didn’t you just tell them to stay here? We’ve got, what…three guest rooms? Unless you’ve been secretly renting out of the house without telling me.”
“Ha,” he says flatly, but I hear the smile in it. “I didn’t want to crowd you, kiddo. Thought you might want a little space before you go back to school. Didn’t want a couple of strangers making you feel out of sorts in your own home.”
My chest warms, equal parts touched and exasperated.
That’s my dad: always putting everyone else first, even when it means he’s left putting his buddies up in some rundown motel instead of just letting them pile into the house like family.
“It’s fine. I mean, I don’t mind. You’ll be home soon, right? Why not have a whole dinner celebration, then? Me coming home and you for your birthday. Kill two birds with one stone.”
He chuckles, that low rumble making my chest loosen a little. “Yeah. That’s a fair point. Might just give them a call, then. Haven’t seen those guys in too long. You’ve never met them, but they’re good fellas.”
Before I can answer, a burst of static crackles sharply in the background, followed by a clipped voice over the radio calling out codes I don’t understand.
Dad sighs, weary and reluctant, a sound I’ve known my whole life. One that always means he has to go even when neither of us want him to.
“Duty calls,” he mutters. “I’ll be home soon, kiddo. Love you.”
