"I said I'm tired, Linda." His tone leaves no room for argument.
My mother looks between us, her face creased with worry and disappointment. "Mia, why don't we go to the kitchen? I'll make us some tea."
I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. I follow her out of the living room, feeling my father's cold gaze on my back until we turn the corner.
In the kitchen, my mother busies herself with the kettle while I sink into a chair at the table. This room looks the same, too. The same yellow curtains. The same ceramic rooster collection on the windowsill. The same table where I did my homework every night.
"I'm sorry," my mother says, her back to me as she fills the kettle. "He's been so angry since I told him you were coming. I thought seeing you might soften him, but ..."
"It's okay, Mom. I understand."
"Do you?" She turns to face me, her eyes red-rimmed. "Do you understand what it's been like? Watching him waste away, knowing he's dying, and carrying the weight of your absence on top of everything else?"
"I never meant to hurt you."
"But you did." Her voice is gentle but firm. "You hurt us both. And I've kept your secrets, Mia. I've lied to your father about where you were, about whether I'd heard from you. I've carried that guilt every single day."
"I know. I'm so sorry."
She crosses to the table and sits across from me, reaching for my hands. "I love you. I never stopped loving you. But you need to understand that this won't be easy. Your father is stubborn and proud, and he's dying. He doesn't have time for slow reconciliation."
"What should I do?"
"Give him time. Keep showing up. Let him see that you're serious about being here." She squeezes my hands. "And focus on your new job. You start tomorrow at Riverside Academy, right?"
"Yes. Tomorrow morning."
"That's good. That's something positive to focus on while you work on things with your father." She manages a small smile. "I'm proud of you for becoming a teacher. That's what you always wanted."
"Thanks, Mom."
We sit in silence for a moment, the kettle beginning to whistle softly on the stove. My mother stands to tend to it, and I watch her move around the kitchen with practiced ease. She looks tired. Worn down by years of keeping secrets and managing my father's illness.
When I finally stand to leave, my mother walks me to the door. She hugs me tightly, whispering in my ear, "Don't give up on him. Please. He needs you, even if he can't admit it yet."
"I won't give up," I promise.
I walk back to my car on unsteady legs, my emotions a tangled mess of grief, guilt, and fragile hope. The reunion was worse than I'd imagined but also exactly what I'd expected. My father's anger is justified. I abandoned them. I broke their hearts. And now I'm back, asking for forgiveness I'm not sure I deserve.
I slide into the driver's seat and sit there for a moment, staring at the house. Through the window, I can see my mother moving around inside. My father is probably still in his recliner, angry and bitter and dying.
I start the engine and pull away from the curb, watching the house disappear in my rearview mirror. Tomorrow I start my new job. Tomorrow I face whatever comes next. But tonight, I just need to survive the weight of my father's rejection.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder. I glance down at the screen and see an email notification. The subject line makes my stomach drop: "Welcome to Riverside Academy."
I pull over to the side of the road and open the email with trembling fingers. It's a simple greeting, but with a message to meet with the principal first thing in the morning.
4
MIA
I pull into the Riverside Academy parking lot at seven-thirty, a full hour before I need to be here. My hands grip the steering wheel as I stare at the imposing brick building with its manicured lawns and pristine white columns. This is it. My fresh start. My chance to rebuild something resembling a normal life.
If only my heart would stop hammering against my ribs.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror one more time. Navy blazer, cream blouse, minimal makeup. Professional. Composed.
The morning air is crisp as I walk toward the main entrance, my heels clicking against the pavement. Inside, the lobby smells like floor polish and coffee. A trophy case lines one wall, filled with academic awards and sports championships. Everything gleams with the kind of perfection that comes from old money and high expectations.
