That Saturday, I pushed open the door to my dad’s office and was instantly hit by Mandolin Rain blasting like the soundtrack to a personal apocalypse. If there was an award for obliviousness to headphones, Dad was a lifetime champion. The volume wasn’t subtle—it punched through every ounce of quiet I was craving, turning the house into a badly tuned radio station no one asked for.
“Dad?” I called, voice hesitant but weighted with questions that felt like quicksand. I wasn’t sure if I was seeking reassurance or planning to wade into some emotional minefield. The truth was simple, the kind of question kids learn to swallow whole: Does he even love me?
“Yeah?” His tone was sharp, like I’d just interrupted a very serious and deeply private concert. He yanked the CD out so fast it was like he
