By the time my father asked about going home, I had been awake for a while.
I was tired of the room.
I was tired of the quiet.
I was tired of looking at the same coat and backpack and thinking about how they had ended up beside my hospital bed.
But I was also afraid of leaving.
My father sat near the window, holding his phone without looking at it.
"Have you thought about what you want to do?" he asked.
I knew what he meant.
"About going home?"
He nodded.
"A little."
He waited for me to say more.
I looked at the blanket.
"I don't know if I'm ready."
He put his phone on the table.
"That's okay."
I studied his face.
"Are you going to be upset if I say I don't want to go yet?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
He took a breath.
"Yes. I won't be upset with you for being scared."
I wanted to believe him.
I also remembered how quickly his anger had become a decision I couldn't change.
"I don't want you to think I'm doing this to punish you," I said.
"I'm not thinking that."
"I'm not trying to make you feel bad."
"I know."
"I'm just scared."
His face softened, but he didn't move closer.
"You have every reason to feel that way."
I looked at him for a long moment.
I hadn't expected him to say that.
Part of me had been waiting for him to tell me that I was safe now, that the worst was over, that I needed to stop worrying.
Instead, he had acknowledged the fear without telling me to put it away.
It didn't erase anything.
But it made it easier to keep talking.
"What would happen if I went home and got scared again?" I asked.
He thought before answering.
"You could tell me."
"What if you were angry?"
"I would still need to listen."
"What if you didn't believe me?"
He looked down at his hands.
"Then I would need to stop and make sure I understood what you were saying before I did anything."
I held his gaze.
"Even if Lydia was there?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"Even then."
I wasn't ready to believe that promise completely.
But I heard the words.
"Would you ask me questions first?"
"Yes."
"Would you let me answer?"
"Yes."
"Would you check before you decided I was lying?"
He nodded.
"Yes."
I looked toward the window.
The sky outside was pale, and the rain had eased.
I couldn't see the road from where I sat.
I was glad.
I didn't want to see it yet.
My father followed my gaze.
"I keep thinking about you walking," he said.
I turned back toward him.
"I don't want to talk about the whole walk again."
"Okay."
"I've already told you what I remember."
"I know."
"And I don't want you to keep asking because you feel guilty."
He looked at me.
"I'm asking because I want to understand."
"I know you want to understand now."
He went quiet.
I wasn't trying to hurt him.
I was trying to explain that his reasons mattered less to me than what he did with them.
"I needed you to understand before I left," I said. "You didn't have to know everything. You just had to ask me."
He nodded.
"You're right."
I rested my head against the pillow.
For a while, I thought the conversation was over.
Then he asked, "Would it help if we didn't decide today?"
I looked at him.
"What do you mean?"
"We can wait until you feel ready to talk about leaving. We don't have to make the decision right now."
I thought about the front door.
I thought about the lock turning after I stepped outside.
I thought about standing in the rain and wondering whether I had anywhere else to go.
"I don't know when I'll feel ready," I said.
"Then we don't have to decide when."
I watched him carefully.
"You won't keep asking?"
"Not unless you want to talk about it."
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
"Okay."
He nodded.
I reached for my phone.
This time, I unlocked it.
The messages were still there.
I looked at the screen without opening any of them, then locked it again.
My father didn't ask who had contacted me.
I put the phone down.
"Can you move my backpack closer?" I asked.
He brought it beside me.
I checked the front pocket to make sure the worksheet was still there.
It was.
I pulled it out and laid it on the blanket.
The paper looked worse than it had the day before.
The corner was bent, and the crease down the middle no longer lined up neatly.
I tried to flatten it.
My father watched.
"Do you need another sheet?"
"No."
I folded the worksheet again.
"I want to keep this one."
"All right."
I slipped it back into the pocket.
There wasn't anything important written on it.
It wasn't a message.
It didn't prove that I had told the truth.
It was just an unfinished assignment.
Still, I didn't want to leave it behind.
It belonged to the person I had been before that night, and I wasn't ready to throw away something so ordinary.
My father looked at the backpack.
"Is there anything else you need?"
I shook my head.
"Not right now."
He returned to the chair.
I looked at the coat beside my legs.
"Can you put that on the other chair?"
He stood and moved it.
"Is that better?"
"Yes."
He sat down again without asking whether I wanted to wear it.
I was grateful that he had listened to the request as it was, rather than trying to turn it into something else.
The coat could stay folded.
My phone could remain on the table.
The worksheet could stay in my bag.
I didn't need any of those things to solve the larger problem between us.
I needed time.
I needed my father to understand that I could not simply return to the house and act as though nothing had happened.
And I needed to see whether he could remember what he had promised when we were no longer sitting in a hospital room.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"If I come home, I don't want you to tell me that everything is fine."
He nodded.
"I won't."
"Because it isn't."
"I know."
"I might still be angry."
"You can be."
"I might not want to talk to you sometimes."
He looked at the floor, then back at me.
"I'll give you space."
I wasn't sure what that would look like.
I wasn't sure whether he could do it.
But I didn't need to settle every part of our future before I could rest.
I pulled the blanket up and leaned back.
My father stayed in the chair.
After a few minutes, he asked if I wanted the light changed.
"No. It's fine."
"All right."
I closed my eyes.
The room was quiet, but the silence no longer felt like something I had to fill.
I could stop talking without losing my chance to be heard.
I could say I wasn't ready without having to defend it.
I could be frightened without pretending I was fine.
My father had not repaired what happened.
I still remembered the door closing behind me.
I still remembered the cold rain and the distance between our house and the place where I collapsed.
I still remembered looking for his car.
Those memories would not disappear because he sat beside my bed and apologized.
But he had asked whether I was ready.
And when I told him I wasn't, he had not tried to force a different answer out of me.
For that moment, I let that be enough.
I opened my eyes once more and saw him sitting quietly by the window.
"Dad?"
He looked over.
"I'm here."
I nodded and closed my eyes again.
I didn't know yet what going home would mean.
I only knew that I wasn't going to pretend I felt safe before I did.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: I Was Finally Allowed to Decide When I Was Ready, but I Still Didn’t Know What Would Be Waiting for Me at Home
My Father Had Already Decided I Was Guilty Before I Could Explain What Was Inside My Backpack
Part 16 of 20
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