The distance hurt.
Weeks passed, and the silence from my parents’ house was deafening. My mom texted me now and then, asking how the baby was doing, but I kept my distance. I told myself I was protecting my son—from pain, from rejection, from the man who had once called him a burden. And yet, beneath my anger, there was a quiet ache. I missed my dad—or rather, the version of him I used to know before those cruel words tore us apart.
