“Okay,” says Dad. “How’s this?
You know I lost my job and was out of work
for quite a while.”
“Yep.”
“Well, that was hard for me.”
“You were worried about paying the bills?”
“Not just that. Sad, too. Missing my work.
My colleagues. My routine.
Who I thought I was.”
“So?”
“So, I got frustrated. Angry.”
“At us?”
“Mostly at life, I guess. But
it spilled over into the way I acted with
your mom.”
“Mad-sad-blue?”
“Yeah, well, and kinda disconnected.
Focused on myself too much. And my feelings.
Me. Me. Me. Not enough about her. Or you.”
I think about what Albert said—
about only paying attention to myself.
“I understand,” I say.
“Anyway, eventually I just got tired of failing.
Failing to find a job. Failing to make your mom happy.”
“So you left.”
“I thought if I got away it would be easier.”
“Was it?”
“Yeah,” Dad says.
He chuckles. “For a day or two.”
“Dad …,” I say, then just stare at him.
He tugs at my ponytail. “What?”
“I’m afraid to ask,” I say.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s to be afraid of?”
And he makes his famous Frankenstein face.
I laugh out loud.
Then he starts tickling me.
I scream. I squirm, beg: “Stop! Stop!”
“Are you still afraid?”
“No! No! I’ll ask! Stop!”
He stops. He waits while I catch my breath.
“Okay,” I say. I look at him.
“Dad … didn’t you miss us?”
He doesn’t speak the answer.
Maybe he can’t.
But it’s okay because the answer
comes another way—
in the best squeeze anyone has ever given me
and the tears that fall
from his eyes.