Ten years after my father left, I was visiting my mother when someone knocked on the front door.
She was upstairs getting ready for dinner.
I opened the door and found a man standing on the porch with a battered suitcase.
His hair had thinned. His face was lined. His jacket looked as though he had slept in it.
But I recognized him immediately.
“Dad?”
He gave me a tired smile.
“Hello, Heidi.”
I couldn’t move.
For ten years, I had imagined this moment. Sometimes, I pictured him arriving with flowers and an apology. Sometimes, I imagined screaming at him. In other versions, I slammed the door in his face.
But standing in front of him, I felt strangely empty.
“What are you doing here?”
He glanced past me into the house.
“Is your mother home?”
“Why?”
He sighed as though I were making an ordinary conversation unnecessarily difficult.
“I’ve had a rough few months.”