It was a Saturday morning at a hardware store. I was buying paint because I’d finally decided to redo the guest room, turn it into an office that felt like mine instead of a spare space waiting for someone else’s needs.
I turned down an aisle and almost ran into him.
He looked older than I remembered. Not dramatically, but in the way men do when their illusions break—like their posture has to carry more weight now. His hair had more gray. His hands were rougher.
“Elena,” he said, voice low.
For a second, my body did the old thing—tighten, prepare, brace.
Then I exhaled.
“Dad,” I replied.
He shifted awkwardly, staring at the paint swatches in my cart. “You bought a place.”
“Yes,” I said simply.
He nodded, swallowing. “Your mom told me.”
Of course she did. Sharing my life like it was still theirs.
My father’s eyes flicked to mine. “I… I should’ve stopped it,” he said quietly.
The words were simple, but they landed hard.
“You should have,” I agreed.
He flinched like he’d hoped I’d soften it. Like he’d hoped an apology would be a magic key.
He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know the amount,” he said. “Not at first.”
“But you knew something,” I replied.
He looked down. “Yes.”