Chapter 6

Dad did not come over for six days.

That mattered.

Before, he would have forced a conversation because guilt made him impatient.

This time, he waited.

He texted once a day.

Not paragraphs.

Not excuses.

Small things.

I hope school was okay.

I’m sorry for the hallway fight fallout.

I dropped your cleats at the porch.

No need to answer.

Lily got messages too.

She responded with one-word answers at first.

Okay.

Fine.

No.

Then one day she wrote, Did you eat dinner?

He replied with a photo of a sad grocery-store salad.

Lily showed me.

“He needs help.”

I snorted.

“He needs a lot of help.”

She almost smiled.

Marissa did not stay quiet.

She posted a long statement about betrayal, blended family trauma, and “teenage manipulation.”

This time, Dad commented publicly.

Marissa, stop. Ethan did not manipulate anyone. I failed my son. Do not use Tyler or my children to defend my choices.

The post disappeared twenty minutes later.

Screenshots did not.

For the first time, public embarrassment worked in the right direction.

Tyler texted me through Instagram.

Sorry again. Mom took my phone for a while.

I stared at the message.

Then typed.

Not your fault.

He replied.

Still sucks.

Yeah, I wrote.

It does.

Two days later, Dad asked if he could attend Lily’s school art show.

Mom asked Lily.

Lily said yes, but only if he did not bring flowers because “flowers make adults act fake.”

So Dad came with no flowers.

He stood in the cafeteria wearing a wrinkled button-down, looking terrified of a room full of construction paper.

Lily showed him her painting.

It was our family at the championship.

Mom in the stands.

Me on the field.

Lily holding a poster.

One empty seat.

Dad stared at it.

His face went pale.

Lily watched him carefully.

“That’s where you were supposed to sit.”

“I know.”

“I painted it empty because it was.”

His eyes filled.

“That’s fair.”

“You can’t ask me to paint you in.”

“I won’t.”

She nodded.

Then handed him a second paper.

It showed a man standing outside the stadium doors.

Dad looked confused.

Lily said, “That’s maybe later.”

He covered his mouth.

She shrugged.

“It’s not inside yet.”

He cried in the cafeteria.

A few parents stared.

Lily ignored them and moved on to her clay turtle.

That was the first time I thought maybe we were not going back.

Maybe we were going somewhere else.

Somewhere honest.

Dad started therapy.

He also started coming to my practices at college prep camp.

Not with cheers.

Not with big gestures.

He sat quietly at the top row.

The first time I saw him there, my chest tightened.

Anger came first.

Then something worse.

Hope.

I hated hope.

Hope made you look at empty seats.

After practice, he did not rush down.

He waited by his truck.

I walked past him.

He said, “Good routes today.”

I stopped.

“You watched?”

“All of it.”

I nodded.

“Okay.”

He smiled like I had handed him a trophy.

That annoyed me.

But I did not tell him to leave.

The college calls kept coming.

One from Ohio.

One from North Carolina.

One from a university three hours away.

Mom helped me organize them.

Coach helped with film.

Dad asked if he could help.

I told him he could make a spreadsheet.

He made the most intense spreadsheet I had ever seen.

Color-coded.

Scholarship amounts.

Graduation rates.

Offensive schemes.

Distance from home.

Mom looked at it and muttered, “Of course he finally becomes useful through Excel.”

I laughed.

She looked startled.

So did I.

Healing sneaks in like that.

One night, Tyler messaged again.

My mom is moving us to Florida.

I sat up.

When?

Two weeks.

Are you okay?

Not really.

I hesitated.

Then wrote.

Do you want to talk?

He called.

His voice was small.

“I don’t want to move.”

“Did you tell your mom?”

“She says we need a fresh start because everyone turned against her.”

I looked out my bedroom window.

“That’s not fair.”

“I know.”

He sniffed.

“I liked Daniel. He was nicer than my real dad.”

That hit me in a strange place.

For months, I had seen Tyler as the boy Dad chose instead of me.

Now he sounded like another kid adults kept moving around to cover their damage.

“He liked you too,” I said.

“Do you hate me?”

“No.”

“Did you?”

I was quiet.

“Yeah. For a little.”

“Okay,” he whispered. “That makes sense.”

We talked for twenty minutes.

About basketball.

About football.

About how adults say “fresh start” when they mean “run away.”

After the call, I texted Dad.

Tyler is moving to Florida. He’s not okay.

Dad replied immediately.

Can I call him?

Ask him.

I did.

Tyler said yes.

The next day, Dad met Tyler and his grandmother for lunch.

Marissa was furious.

But Tyler got to say goodbye properly.

So did Dad.

When Dad told me, his eyes were red.

“I hurt him too,” he said.

I nodded.

“Yeah.”

He looked at me.

“I keep finding new damage.”

“That’s what happens when you finally look.”

He closed his eyes.

“I deserved that.”

“I know.”

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But I said it without venom.

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