Six months after the story ran, my father called me again. This time, his voice was different. Tired. Small.
"Marina," he said. "I want to see you."
"Okay."
"I want to talk. Really talk. I've been thinking about what you said—about being honest."
I waited.
"I'm not going to pretend I've changed," he said. "I don't think I have. But I want to understand—I want to understand why you left. And why you came back."
I thought about the last four years. I thought about the letters in the drawer. I thought about the way my mother had stood up after the story ran and said, "I'm not going to let this destroy me."
"I'll come down," I said. "On Saturday."
I drove down on Saturday. The house looked better than it had in years—someone had painted the front door. The garden was still overgrown, b
