The Knock at the Door
That afternoon, my father showed up, coat buttoned high.
“Let’s not do this over text,” he said.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” I replied. “You watched what happened and sent me a bill.”
He held out an envelope. “At least take your card.”
I took it. He glanced past me—at the blanket fort, the thrifted couch, Noah’s drawings on the fridge.
For a moment, he looked like someone peering through glass into a life he couldn’t buy.
“You’ll regret cutting us off.”
“No,” I said. “Not if it means my son never wonders if he deserves a plate.”
He left. The elevator doors shut.
I exhaled ten years in one breath.
