One day, I opened the door and saw someone I didn’t expect. It was my dad. I hadn’t seen him for ages. In fact, I didn’t want to.

“Hi, son. I’m sorry to come like this. I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer your phone,” he told me.

Yeah, what do you want?”

“I was wondering if maybe I could stay with you… I don’t have a place right now, so…”

“You can stay. But you have to pay rent.”

But I don’t have any money at all… and you’re the only person who can help me.”

“I don’t care,” I said, feeling my heart tighten. “You can live on the street. I wish God had taken you instead of Mom!”

He flinched. His lips trembled like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out. Instead, he just nodded, turned around, and walked away. The old me, the little boy who used to cry himself to sleep after Mom and I had to hide from his drunken rages, would have been happy to see him suffer. But the man I had become felt… conflicted

I closed the door, but I didn’t feel relieved. I felt heavy, like something was sitting on my chest. I told myself it was better this way. He had left us when I was twelve, walked out and never looked back. When Mom died, he showed up six months later like he had any right to grieve her. And now, when he needed something, he came crawling to me.

Still, I couldn’t get the image of him out of my head. He looked thinner, older. His beard was overgrown, his clothes smelled like a mix of sweat and cigarettes. He didn’t look drunk, though. That was new.

The next morning, I drove by the bus station, half-hoping, half-dreading that I’d see him there. And sure enough, there he was, sitting on a bench with his arms crossed, his chin resting on his chest. He looked like he was sleeping. Or maybe just too tired to do anything else.

I parked and walked up to him. “You eaten anything?”