He sighs. “That makes me feel… shut out. Like you decided I couldn’t be trusted with the truth.”
“Can you blame me?” I ask softly.
There’s a heavy sigh. “No,” he admits. “I suppose I can’t.”
We sit in that admission for a minute, both of us breathing a little harder than normal.
“So what now?” I ask finally. “You going to tell me this is a mistake? That I’m ruining my future? That loving him is wrong?”
“I don’t know what to tell you yet,” he says honestly. “I’m still… processing. I won’t pretend I’m not worried. About how tangled this is with your history. About what happens if you break up. About how this affects your mental health long term.”
My heart stutters.
“But,” he says before I can spiral all the way down, “I also can’t ignore what you just said. That he keeps you alive. That he shows up when you need him. I’ve seen you since he came back into your life. You… laugh more. You talk to me, even when you’re angry. I don’t know what to do with all of that yet, but I can’t pretend it’s nothing.”
I blink hard.
“So…?” I prompt.
“So I’m not going to issue some blanket prohibition just because I’m your father,” he says, a little wry. “You’re an adult. I can’t dictate who you love. I can tell you I’m struggling with it. That it’s going to take me time to adjust. That I will probably say the wrong thing more than once.”
“You already have,” I mutter, then instantly regret it. “Sorry. That was?—”
“Accurate,” he sighs.
My mouth twists. “Yeah.”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“I don’t want to lose you over this,” he says quietly. “Even if I don’t understand it yet. Even if I don’t exactly agree.”
“You’re not going to lose me,” I whisper. “Unless you decide you’d rather let any relationship with me go than… accept who I am and who I love.”
He inhales, slow and shaky.
“I don’t want that,” he says. “So I suppose that leaves me with one option.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“I learn,” he says simply. “I ask questions. I listen. I try to separate my fears from your reality. And I try very hard not to make you feel like a project I’m failing.” His voice drops. “Because you are not.”
“Okay,” I say, voice thick. “I can work with that.”
Another little silence.
“Are you… with him now?” Dad asks, cautious. “I’d like to speak with both of you, together.”
“Not yet,” I say. “I’m going to his place in a few. We were going to—” I swallow. “He wants to talk about getting his own therapist. To help him support me without… burning out.”
Dad is quiet for a minute.
“That’s… a good sign,” he says at last. “Shows maturity. Awareness.”
A small, fierce spark of pride flares in my chest on Miguel’s behalf.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “He’s… he’s trying really hard. For me.”
“You both are,” Dad says. “And I am… proud of you for that. Regardless of my other concerns.”
