When Emma’s father disappeared before she was born, my parents treated it like proof they had been right all along.
“We warned you.”
Instead of asking what I needed…
They closed their door.
The only text I received from them during the entire graduation ceremony came twenty-three minutes after it ended.
Congratulations.
One word.
No exclamation point.
No apology.
Nothing else.
I looked at the message for several seconds before quietly deleting it.
Some distances couldn’t be measured in miles.
As I adjusted Emma’s blanket, I heard someone call my name.
It was Professor Linda Harris.
She taught my first-year sociology class.
The same professor who had once found me crying in an empty stairwell after I failed a quiz because Emma had been hospitalized with pneumonia the night before.
She walked over carrying a small envelope.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
I smiled.
“You already did enough.”
