When I woke again, the room was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the night.
Dad was sitting in the wingback chair beside the bed, staring out the window at the sliver of moon visible through the gap in the drapes. His shoulders were slumped, the lines around his mouth deep and grim. I had never seen him look so old. Dad was always the source of light in our house—the jokes, the secret candy runs, the laughter. Now, he looked like he was carrying the weight of the world.
"Dad?" I rasped.
He started, blinking rapidly as he turned to me. The grim expression vanished instantly, replaced by a warm, relieved smile.
"Hello, sweetheart."
Guilt, heavy and cold, settled in my stomach. I thought about the scene in the garden—the screaming, the running, the public rejection of everything he
