But he never did.
By the time I was thirteen, I stopped expecting him to show up. By sixteen, I stopped caring. When I turned eighteen, I moved across the state and didn’t even give him my new address.
He still tried calling sometimes.
I never picked up.
I would watch the phone ring until it went to voicemail. The messages were always similar.
“I love you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“One day you’ll understand.”
But I didn’t want to understand.
I just wanted the kind of father who showed up.
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