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He nudges me. I clear my throat.

“Serena, not everyone is out to get you.”

They both open their mouths, but there’s a scuffle from behind us, and everyone turns. Dad stands in the hallway, face sober, hands folded. Suddenly, I’m a little girl again, and my heart hurts seeing him alone. He’s not perfect, but he’s still my father, and that means something. Our eyes connect. All those years hang heavy over our heads.

“Dad,” I whisper.

He lifts an arm. “Come here.”

I go, and he puts his hand on my shoulder. I think he’s going to say something, but then he pulls me against his chest. There’s a long moment, then a sniffle from Serena in the background. When I pull back, his eyes are wet.

“You like this boy?” he asks quietly.

I nod, wiping my face.

“He’s gonna try and stay with you for a bit?”

I nod again.

He clears his throat, and his eyes go misty. “Your mom called, talked to me for a while.”

“Really?”

They haven’t spoken beyond emails to set up visits. He touches the side of my face.

“I think I’m gonna go up to Portland for a bit,” he says.

Shock ripples through me in a wave.

“What? Why? You’re leaving us?”

Serena skirts around the counter, eyes enormous and jaw slack. “Dad, you can’t just leave us.”

He lifts his hand, waving it. “I’m not abandoning you girls. Eugenia and I were just talking about it when she visited. She’s got a doctor she really likes up there, and we both think I could get better medical care if I spent some time at her place.”

The room is dead silent.

“What about us?” I whisper.

Dad turns to Coen, who’s stayed silent this whole time. “You want a break? Here’s a place for a break.”

They make eye contact.

“Can I talk to you outside?” Coen asks quietly.

Nobody knows what to say, but, luckily, Coen does, moving around me and taking my dad’s elbow. I back up and sink down on a stool, hard. They move across the living room and out the back door. Through the window, I catch a glimpse of him helping Dad down the steps so they can stand in the backyard beneath the oak tree, the same one where our childhood tire swing still hangs, the ground worn beneath it.

This isn’t what I wanted.

I didn’t need everything to change.

The silence after the screen door slams shut is so loud. I think of all the little spats, the disagreements over the years that resulted in that door slamming. My father never got mad at us girls for being upset. He just rode the waves, weathering the storm, until we were ready to talk again. He was patient, just like Coen. My heart hurts, watching them through the window.

He’s standing, but with a little difficulty.

Deep inside, I don’t think him going to Portland is a bad idea. They’re less rural, and Aunt Eugenia’s house is all one level, in an expensive suburb outside the city. She does well for herself, better than we do.

Dad would get better care with her.