“No.”
“We were married for years.”
“And I spent years learning how to live without you.”
He looked at me, hoping I would intervene.
“Heidi, please.”
I remembered his promise at the door ten years earlier.
Of course I’ll still see you, sweetheart.
I remembered the birthday calls that became shorter, the visits that never happened, and the nights my mother cried silently when she thought I was asleep.
I remembered the money she had spent on treatments while believing our finances were being handled honestly.
I remembered the woman she had been before she learned to fear her own reflection.
And I remembered the woman standing beside me now.
“I waited for you for years, Dad,” I said. “I’m not waiting anymore.”
He stared at me.
Then he turned toward Morgan, as though he expected him to offer a compromise.
Morgan didn’t.
My father lifted his suitcase.
He looked at my mother one last time.