Dad
Ready for pickup. Last day.
Right.
I pocket my phone, get out of the car, and trudge through the cold March morning toward the building that’s supposedly given my father his life back.
The Serenity Hills Treatment Center smells like industrial cleaner and hope.
I’m not sure which is more overwhelming.
The visitors’ lounge has uncomfortable chairs, motivational posters about “one day at a time,” and a coffee machine that dispenses something that’s technically coffee but tastes like regret.
My dad is waiting by the window, holding a small duffel bag—everything he came with plus some workbooks and a thirty-day chip.
He looks better than I’ve seen him in years.
Clearer eyes. Steadier hands. Actually present.
“Hey, son.” He walks over, and for a second I think he’s going to do the awkward shoulder-pat thing we usually do.
Instead, he hugs me, his arms enveloping me like I’m a kid again.
I’m so surprised, I almost don’t hug back.
“You ready?” I ask when we pull apart.
“Not yet.” He sets the bag down. “There are some things I need to say first. Walk with me?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
We head outside. It’s one of those mid-March days that feels like a promise—the sun bright and almost warm, melting snow dripping from the building’s eaves. The air still has that sharp edge of winter, but there’s something softer underneath. Spring, maybe. Hope.
The facility grounds are quiet. A paved path circles the main building, lined with bare trees and dormant flower beds. Patches of dirty snow cling to the shaded areas, but the sidewalk is clear, wet with melt.
Dad starts walking. I follow, hands in my pockets, watching my breath cloud in the air.
For a minute, we just walk. The only sounds are our footsteps on wet pavement and the drip-drip-drip of melting snow.
Then Dad says, “I’ve been thinking about what happens next. After I leave here.”
I’ve been planning this for weeks. “I was thinking I’d move back to the house for a while. Keep an eye on things?—”
“I think it’s time you stop babysitting me,” Dad says.
I glance at him. “What?”
He pauses on the path, turns to face me fully. “Son, I can’t tell you how much it’s meant to me all the times you’ve come to my rescue. But…that’s got to stop.”
He drops his gaze, clearly reciting something practiced. “I’ve spent thirty days learning about myself. About my addiction. About the lies I told myself and everyone around me. And one thing I know for sure—you can’t control me into sobriety.”
The words sting. “I’m not trying to?—”
“Yes, you are. And I don’t blame you. I put that on you.” His voice cracks. “I made you responsible for my mistakes. Made you grow up too fast.”
A bird lands on a nearby branch, sending down a small shower of water droplets that catch the sunlight.
“I want you to know how sorry I am,” he says quietly. “I’m so sorry, Brody. For all of it. For every time you had to bail me out. Every time you had to lie about why you were late. Every dollar you spent cleaning up my messes.”
