I stood there with the phone pressed against my ear,
mouth half open,
heart working overtime.
I couldn’t believe how fluently Angela spoke.
How confident.
How grown.
“Papa,” she said softly,
“I miss you… when are you coming to visit me?”
Those words hit me like a punch I wasn’t ready for.
My hand stiffened.
My fingers curled until my palm trembled.
I found myself pacing up and down the room,
dragging my feet on the floor like the ground itself was heavy.
Each step felt like a mix of joy, regret, and guilt.
“I miss you too,” I said — again and again —
and each time my voice cracked a little more.
I wasn’t even ashamed.
That’s what pain does:
it melts you from the inside but gives you strength to stay standing.
Rebecca watched me from the doorway.
Her eyes glistened.
She
