And the silence was starting to feel like an answer. One I didn’t want.
I hung up and stared at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom, one hand resting on the gentle rise of my stomach. Nancy Reagan was curled up beside me, already snoring like the world wasn’t quietly shifting underneath us. I wanted to believe it was all in my head—that the space between me and the people in Savannah was just geography, not something more profound. But when you’ve been left before, it doesn’t take much time to start calling it abandonment.
I needed to get out of that room, so I grabbed my laptop to work on the edits of the photos I’d taken earlier, hoping the change of scenery would snap me out of the funk I was feeling.
Downstairs, the house was too quiet in that eerie, tiptoeing way it always was. Like it was holding its breath, waiting for someone to explode. My mother was still at City Hall, bossing people into resolutions they never asked for, which meant I had a window of peace. All I wanted was a snack, maybe a glass of my dad’s overly sweet iced tea, and five minutes where I didn’t feel like a stranger in my own life.
I found him in the kitchen, his back to me, rummaging through the fridge.
“Please tell me there’s leftover banana pudding,” I said.
He looked up, startled, then smiled that soft, worn-out smile of his. “I think you polished it off.”
“Sounds about right. Sorry, I startled you.”
“Just not used to sharing the house much anymore. Your momma’s always out and about.” He grabbed a pitcher and poured two glasses of tea. “You look tired.”
”Iamtired.” I took my tea to the table, setting my things down. “But I feel good today. I’ve been working on some photography stuff. I got to shoot a few photos—wanna see?”
We sat at the kitchen table—me on the left like always, as if muscle memory had carried me right back to the only spot that ever felt like mine in this house.
Dad leaned over my shoulder, watching me scroll through the shots, tweaking the warmth, editing out parking signs, stray elbows, anything that pulled focus from the people I wanted to highlight.
“These are great,” he said, rubbing my shoulder. “You’ve always had an eye. I’m surprised you never pursued this full-time.”
I shrugged. “Not for lack of trying, but maybe I should’ve tried harder. I guess I needed someone to believe in me before I could start betting on myself.”
He sat across from me, folding his hands. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Ever since that fight you and your momma had the other day…”
I didn’t say anything.
“You know, we always laid a gentle hand on your brother,” he said carefully. “Because we knew the world might be cruel to him, just for being who he is. We tried to armor him with love—so much that if anyone ever tried to hurt him with their words, it would bounce right off.”
I let out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Great plan. You just created a self-righteous little tyrant.”
He chuckled, then nodded, the smile falling away. “You… you never needed that kind of handholding, Tallulah. You came into this world strong. Fierce. Unapologetic.”
I looked at him. “Is that the truth? Or just a nice way to explain away neglect?” He didn’t flinch.
“What you felt in this house, growing up… it wasn’t okay. I can see that now. But that doesn’t mean you were supposed to float through life without purpose.”
“That doesn’t excuse the years I felt like y’all were ignoring me. And it sure as hell doesn’t excuse Momma chipping away at me until I barely recognized who I was.” My voice didn’t shake. “Ionly got tough because I had to. Because this house demanded it. And that’s not a legacy I plan to pass on.”
I eased to my feet, balancing my laptop in one hand, the other instinctively settling over my belly.
“You might be trying to apologize right now, Daddy—and maybe some part of me hears it. But you don’t need to. You should be proud of me. Not because I’ve got a fancy job or a penthouse view—because I don’t. But because Iknowwho I am now. And I’m proud as hell of the woman sitting in this kitchen.”
Later that night, the house was still quiet aside from the low hum of the TV downstairs when my father knocked softly, his head poking through the doorway like he didn’t want to risk too much.
“I’m not interested in continuing this conversation,” I muttered, not looking up from my phone. “I said what I said.”
Daddy chuckled, easing into the room and sitting on the edge of my bed. “As you always do, Tallulah.” He motioned toward the hallway. “I brought some things down from the attic. You might not believe it, but your momma saved all your baby clothes. Said maybe one day you’d want them for your own.”
I held his gaze for a moment, then carefully pushed myself off the bed and followed him out. Boxes were lined up in the hallway, some half-open, full of soft blankets, tiny shoes, and hand-me-down toys. All arranged so neatly it nearly broke me.
“There’s a crib and a rocking chair, too. Still up there,” he added. “And, well... we’ve got plenty of room, if you needed it.”
The hope in his voice landed like a punch. It was the first time I’d seen it—how much hewantedto be someone I could count on. And maybe he didn’t know how to say it outright, but he was trying. Trying in the only way he knew how.
