As time passed, I found myself thinking about home in pieces.
The front door came to mind first.
Then the hallway.
Then the place where my backpack had rested before I picked it up.
I could remember the sound of my father's voice telling me to leave.
I could remember how quickly the argument had ended once he made his decision.
What I couldn't do was imagine walking back into that house and feeling the way I had before.
My father sat beside me while I thought about it.
He had stopped asking whether I was ready to leave.
I was grateful.
I didn't want to have to explain every time the answer was still no.
Instead, he asked whether I wanted to talk.
Sometimes I said yes.
Sometimes I said no.
He accepted both answers.
One time, he asked whether I wanted my phone.
I said it was already close enough.
He nodded.
Another time, he asked whether I wanted my coat.
I told him to leave it on the chair.
He did.
I noticed every time he listened.
I also noticed that I was keeping track.
I didn't like that I had begun measuring my father by small decisions.
Before that night, I hadn't thought I needed to.
I had assumed that when something frightened me, I could go to him.
I had assumed that if he was angry, I could explain.
I had assumed that the person who raised me would not send me into a storm without knowing where I was going.
Those assumptions had felt so ordinary that I had never thought to name them.
Now I couldn't stop noticing their absence.
My father seemed to sense that I was thinking about something.
"What's on your mind?" he asked.
I considered telling him nothing.
Instead, I said, "I don't know how to act around you."
He didn't move.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know whether I should talk to you like normal or whether I should keep being careful."
He looked down at his hands.
"You don't have to act a certain way for me."
I stared at him.
"That's easy to say."
"You're right."
I waited.
He continued.
"I don't want you to feel like you have to pretend you're fine just because I'm sorry."
I looked at the blanket.
"I don't know when I'll be fine."
"You don't have to know now."
I was beginning to understand that the answer could remain unfinished.
I didn't need to make a decision simply because someone wanted one.
I didn't need to tell him I forgave him to prove that I loved him.
I didn't need to pretend that I was no longer afraid because he had apologized.
I could be his daughter and still be angry with him.
I could want him beside me and still wish he had been a different kind of father when I needed him.
Those things could exist together.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think I'll forget this?"
He looked at me for a long moment.
"I don't know."
I appreciated that he didn't promise I would.
"I don't want to spend the rest of my life thinking about it," I said.
"I understand."
"But I don't want you to expect me to forget just because enough time passes."
"I won't."
I watched his face.
He sounded sincere.
I still couldn't know what he would do when time had passed and the hospital room was no longer between us.
That was something I would have to learn.
I looked toward the chair where my coat lay folded.
"Can you put my coat in my backpack?"
He stood.
"Do you want me to?"
"Yes, please."
He picked up the coat and placed it inside the main compartment.
Then he left the bag open.
"Anything else?"
I looked at the worksheet pocket.
"No. That's all."
He set the backpack beside the bed.
I reached out and touched the zipper.
I liked knowing that my coat was there.
I liked knowing that I could reach for my own things.
It wasn't a solution to what had happened.
It was simply one less thing I had to worry about.
My father returned to his chair.
"I want you to know something," he said.
I waited.
"I don't expect you to tell me everything is okay."
I watched him carefully.
"I don't expect you to trust me immediately, either."
I didn't respond.
"I know I have to show you that I can listen."
He paused.
"And I know I can't make that happen by asking you to believe me."
I looked down at my hands.
For the first time, I didn't feel that I needed to correct him.
He had finally described the difference between saying something and proving it.
I didn't know whether he would remember those words later.
But I was glad he had said them.
"Thank you," I told him.
He looked surprised.
I didn't explain.
I wasn't thanking him for what happened.
I was thanking him for not asking me to make his apology easier for him.
He nodded.
"You're welcome."
I rested against the pillow.
My eyes felt heavy.
Before I closed them, I asked one more question.
"If I tell you something you don't want to hear, will you let me finish?"
He answered without looking away.
"Yes."
"Even if you're upset?"
"Even then."
I thought about the hallway.
I thought about how many chances I had tried to use to explain myself before he closed the conversation.
"All right," I said.
I didn't mean that I believed everything would be different.
I meant that I had heard his answer.
For now, that was all I could offer.
My father stayed beside the bed while I rested.
I didn't ask him to promise anything else.
I didn't ask him to explain Lydia's accusation again.
I didn't ask him to tell me that our home would feel normal when I returned.
I was tired of trying to make the future certain.
I had spent enough time that night trying to predict what might happen next.
I wanted to be able to sit still without planning how to get away.
I wanted to sleep without wondering whether I would wake up alone.
I wanted to finish my algebra worksheet when I had the strength.
I wanted ordinary things again.
But I knew that wanting them didn't make them happen.
My father could not give me back the evening before the accusation.
He could not take away the road or the rain or the moment I realized that he wasn't coming after me.
He could only decide what he did next.
And I could decide what I was ready to believe.
I closed my eyes.
For the first time, I stopped trying to decide what our relationship would look like when this was over.
I let that question remain unanswered.
Click here to continue reading: PART 20: I Kept the Unfinished Worksheet, Because the Night My Father Sent Me Away Didn’t Get to Decide Everything I Would Remember About Myself
My Father Had Already Decided I Was Guilty Before I Could Explain What Was Inside My Backpack
Part 19 of 20
