“Can I talk to Dad?” I asked.
There was a pause.
Then, muffled but unmistakable, I heard his voice in the background.
“Tell her I’m busy.”
The words landed softly, but they landed hard.
My mother came back on the line too quickly.
“He’s in the middle of something.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I just wanted to say hi.”
She asked whether I was eating enough, whether I needed anything.
I looked down at the instant noodles on my desk and the cheap blanket wrapped around my shoulders.
“No,” I said. “I’m fine.”
After I hung up, I made the mistake of opening social media.
The first photo I saw was Sadie sitting between our parents at the Thanksgiving table, all three of them smiling into the camera.
The caption read: “So grateful for my family.”
I stared at the image and counted the place settings.
Three.
It should not have hurt anymore, but it did.
Still, that was the night something changed for good. The hope that they might eventually become different did not vanish all at once. It simply dimmed. And when it dimmed, disappointment lost some of its power.
Second semester was harder. My classes intensified. My jobs felt heavier. Some mornings I woke up so tired I could not immediately remember what day it was.
One morning, halfway through a café shift, the room tilted. I grabbed the counter as my vision blurred.
My manager rushed over. “Avery, sit down.”
“I’m okay,” I said automatically.
“You almost collapsed.”
She guided me into a chair and handed me water. “You need rest.”
