“You’re different.”
“I’m sleep-deprived.”
“That too.”
“How am I different?”
“You used to think independence meant needing nobody.”
I frowned.
“I don’t think that.”
“You refused help from me for two years.”
“That was different.”
“Was it?”
I stirred my coffee.
Annoying man.
He smiled.
“You inherited stubbornness from your mother.”
“And from you.”
“Impossible. Mine is principled consistency.”
I laughed.
Then Dad became quiet.
“I’m glad you called me.”
At the hospital.
He didn’t need to clarify.
“So am I.”
He looked outside.
“I wondered if you ever would.”
Guilt touched me.
“Dad—”
“No. I’m not asking for an apology.”
“I should have called before.”
“Probably.”
I smiled.
“You’re terrible at this.”
“At what?”
“Making people feel less guilty.”
“I prefer accuracy.”
For years, I had explained my distance from Dad as independence.
Leo complicated that explanation.
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