The broken lock hung there like a battle scar, a reminder.
One night, Dad knocked on my door. He sat on the edge of my bed, hands clasped between his knees.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have been paying attention.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Your mom would’ve been proud, you know,” he continued. “How you’ve taken care of yourself. But she would’ve hated that you had to.”
Something cracked inside me then; a wall I’d built years ago.
“I miss her,” I whispered.
Dad pulled me into a hug, his flannel shirt soft against my cheek.
“Me too, kiddo.”
We sat like that for a while, the house quiet around us. Not the empty quiet from before, but something gentler. Something healing.
