Chapter 8
Sunday came faster than I was ready for.
Liam drove me to my parents’ house.
He held my hand the whole way.
“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he said, for the tenth time.
“I know,” I said. “But I want to.”
We pulled up to the house I’d grown up in.
The same blue siding. The same oak tree in the front yard that I’d climbed when I was a kid.
For a second, I was 10 years old again, sitting on that tree branch, waiting for my parents to come outside and tell me they were proud of me for getting an A on my science test.
They never came.
But today?
The front door opened before we even got out of the car.
Mom was standing there, apron on, a nervous smile on her face.
Dad was right behind her, holding a photo album.
Derek was next to him, grinning, holding a bottle of my favorite wine.
We walked up the steps.
Mom hugged me first.
It was awkward at first. Stiff.
Then she held me tighter, and I felt her shoulders shake, and I hugged her back.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered into my hair. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Dad shook Liam’s hand.
Then he turned to me.
He didn’t hug me.
He wasn’t a hugging man.
But he held out the photo album.
“I made this for you,” he said, quiet. “It’s… everything. Your science fairs. Your high school graduation. The photos we took of your speech off the TV. All the articles about Solar Reach. The villages. The kids.”
I took the album.
My hands were shaking.
“Come in,” Mom said, wiping her eyes. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
Dinner was perfect.
Lemon chicken. Roasted potatoes. The salad I’d loved as a kid.
Mom had even bought the same lemonade I used to drink every summer.
We talked about everything.
Nothing heavy at first.
Derek told a story about his new job. Liam talked about our upcoming project in India. Mom told us about the garden she’d planted in the backyard.
Then, halfway through the meal, Dad put down his fork.
“Sarah,” he said.
The table went quiet.
“I’ve never been good at this,” he said, looking at his hands. “Talking about feelings. Saying I’m sorry. But I need to say this.”
He looked up at me.
“You are the most remarkable person I have ever known,” he said. “And I spent 28 years too stupid and too proud to see it. I let my own prejudices, my own stupid ideas about what a daughter should be, blind me to the incredible woman right in front of me. I hurt you. Badly. And I will spend the rest of my life trying to make that up to you. If you’ll let me.”
Tears were running down his face.
I’d never seen my dad cry.
Not once.
Not even when his own father died.
I reached across the table and took his hand.
His hand was rough. Calloused from 30 years of working in a factory.
“I’ll let you,” I said, quiet.
That night, after dinner, we sat in the living room and looked through the photo album.
Page after page of me.
Every moment my parents had pretended didn’t matter.
Every award. Every graduation. Every milestone.
They’d been there.
They’d taken the photos.
They just never told me they cared.
When Liam and I left that night, Mom hugged me again.
“Next Sunday?” she said.
“Next Sunday,” I said.
In the car, Liam squeezed my hand.
“See?” he said. “I told you it would be okay.”
I looked back at the house.
May you like
My parents and Derek were standing on the porch, waving.
For the first time in my life, I felt like I was finally home.
