Page 171 of Ruthless Court

I read it once.

Then again.

Dad has never apologized easily. Not to players. Not to parents. Not to officials after technical fouls he insisted were misunderstandings.

I wipe beneath one eye before the tear reaches my cheek.

Dad: I thought we wanted the same thing because you were always there.

There it is.

The misunderstanding that shaped both of us.

He saw me in the gym and thought I chose his future.

I was choosing him.

Me: I wanted to be with you.

The words sit between us.

No typing bubble.

No answer.

I nearly lock the phone when it appears.

Dad: I know that now.

My throat closes.

I lie back across the neatly ironed sheets and stare at the ceiling.

Maybe I was unfair.

Maybe he was selfish.

Maybe we loved each other and built the wrong life around it.

More than one thing can be true.

Me: I’m still mad.

His response comes quickly.

Dad: You get that from your mother.

Me: I get everything useful from Mom.

Dad: There’s my girl.

I laugh through the tears.

Me: I actually love one of my jobs. I think I understand you more than you realize.

Dad: What job?

I hesitate.