Because peace was better than a crowded house that treated me like dirt.
Two months later, Dad showed up in the parking lot outside my plant.
He looked smaller somehow.
“I should have opened the door,” he said.
I studied him.
“Yes.”
He nodded, tears in his eyes.
“Can we start over?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But not in a house I pay for.”
That evening, I ate dinner at my own table.
Hot soup.
Fresh bread.
Real silverware.
Nobody sent me to the garage.
Nobody called me sludge.
And when I locked my front door that night, every key in my hand belonged to me.
