I didn’t call ahead.
Didn’t text.
Didn’t even know if I was going to go through with it until I was standing outside the damn house.
It looks like something out of a magazine—colonial style, crisp navy shutters over the windows, and a wrap around porch with a swing. And the front lawn reallyisperfectly manicured with its symmetrical flower beds and freshly mowed grass. A wind chime sounds gently in the breeze. Massachusetts Luxury Real Estate has probably featured this place more than once.
The whole place looks unbothered. Like no one inside of it has ever abandoned their family.
I stand here for a while, just staring. The image I conjured in my mind—that my father works in a strip mall selling refurbished cell phones and lives in a rundown one bedroom apartment—would be so much more satisfying than the reality. But nothing has really changed. It’s just…shifted.
I wonder if the neighbors are watching from their own picture-perfect houses, whispering to each other about the girl with her hair in a knot and grief fresh in her eyes.
When I finally make it to the front door, it opens before I even knock.
“Mia?”
“Byron.”
He stands in the doorway wearing a sweater vest and slacks. His hair is grayer than I remember, but he’s healthy. Like someone who got a decent night’s sleep the night before. Like nothing has ever gone wrong for him.
“What are you—how did you—?”
“Property records search,” I say flatly. “It’s really not that hard.”
He blinks. “Well… okay then.”
I look past him into the foyer. A marble staircase, fresh flowers in a vase on a glass table in the center of the room, a rack of neatly arranged shoes. This isn’t survival. This is reinvention.
“You live here?” I ask, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
“Uh, yes,” he says, closing the door behind me. “Steph’s out right now—she’s at the club.”
Of course she is.
I move slowly through the entryway, taking in the photos lining the walls—Byron and Steph, grinning in matching tennis whites, and their two bubbly, blonde teenage daughters. Not one photo of me. Not one of Makenna or Macy.
Not that I expect anything else.
“You really just… started over,” I scoff. “New wife. New kids. Is there anything you didn’t replace when you moved here?”
Byron clears his throat, clearly rattled. “I didn’t mean to—”
I give him a look so cold it could stop his heart. “What? You didn’t mean to abandon your family? Or you didn’t mean to get caught?”
“Mia, I—”
“You walked out!” I snap. “You left Mom with three girls and no answers. You choseher. Then you chosethis. And what’s even more mind-blowing? You chose to have more children! Can you even tell me why?”
“I thought it would be easier if I didn’t interfere,” he says weakly, maybe a little surprised that I let him complete a sentence. “I was a pariah. I thought you girls deserved to grow up without that attached to you.”
“Easier,” I spit. “Easier for who? ForSteph? For you? Because it certainly wasn’t easier growing up without a father.”
He opens his mouth again, but I’m still not done.
“I used to think maybe you were out there missing us. Maybe you knew you’d made a mistake. That it was pride, or shame, or something you couldn’t face. Maybe you didn’t think you could take care of us the way we deserved. But this? This is worse.”
He steps forward slightly, like he wants to put a hand on my shoulder, but like hell if I’m letting this man touch me.
