“Dad, please call me.
I don’t understand what’s happening.”
His voice sounded strained, but not angry.
I played the message twice.
Then I deleted it.
Not because I didn’t care.
Because I cared enough to understand that if I answered while my heart was still raw, I might say something meant to wound him.
And I had spent six years swallowing words.
I didn’t want the first honest ones to come out like weapons.
The next morning, Logan called again.
I answered on the fifth ring.
“Dad?”
His voice was cautious.
“Yes.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
“Where are you?”
“Somewhere quiet.”
“Are you safe?”
“I’m fine.”
“Why didn’t you tell us you were leaving?”
I looked through the window at a woman walking her dog along the sidewalk.
The dog stopped to sniff a patch of grass while the woman patiently waited.
