Later, I overheard him speaking to Julia. His voice broke. “She’s a stranger to me. I wasn’t there.”
And I realized: love doesn’t erase distance. It can’t erase time lost.In a trunk of Mom’s old things, I found a letter she had written to Dad about a year before she passed. She had asked him if he was ready to be a real father.
Her words were honest, filled with hope—but also doubt. Somehow, that gave me permission to have doubts too.

The verdict finally came. Calloway accepted a plea deal—less time, full responsibility. It wasn’t perfect justice, but it was the truth.
That night, I whispered to Mom’s photo, “I’m sorry. I love you.” And somehow, it felt like she heard me.The next morning, there were waffles waiting at the kitchen table. Real ones. Butter and syrup and everything.
Julia just smiled and said, “Don’t tell the other vegans,” as she sipped her tea. I smiled back—a real smile this time.

That weekend, I told Dad I wanted to start fresh. I wanted to know Duncan. I wanted to help paint his nursery. I wanted to try Julia’s weird recipes. I wanted to try being part of this family.

Dad pulled me into a hug. And this time, I let him.

Maybe this life—messy, imperfect, and still healing—could be home.
Maybe healing isn’t a thunderclap. Maybe it’s a series of small moments.
A letter. A hug. A plate of waffles. A mural painted for a little boy who doesn’t understand yet—but one day, he might.

And maybe, one day, so will I.