I could see the storm gathering behind his eyes — that quiet, turbulent mix of guilt, frustration, and something deeper he couldn’t quite name. “You wouldn’t understand,” Dad finally muttered, his voice low, almost daring me to disagree.
“But I want to,” I said, sitting across from him, hoping that closeness might help us find a way through the silence that had stretched too far between us.
He rubbed his temple — a familiar, weary motion that spoke of battles long fought, most of them invisible. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, Sophie. It’s just…” He stopped there, the words trailing off like smoke.
“It’s just what, Dad?” My tone softened despite the anger still simmering beneath it. “Why would you ruin something that mattered so much to me?”
When he finally met my gaze, I saw it — the regret, the ache, and something fragile that looked a lot like love. “You remind me so much of her,” he said at last, barely above a whisper.
The name we didn’t speak filled the space between us. Mom. She had been warmth, laughter, and movement — everything he wasn’t since she’d gone. Her absence had left our house hollow, and Dad had filled the emptiness with quiet routines and half-finished sentences.
“I know you miss her,” I said gently, “but I’m not her. I’m me, Dad. And I need you to see that.”
He nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth tightening as if holding back more than words. “I do see you, Sophie,” he said. “But when I look at you, I see all the things she never got to do — all the dreams she left behind.”
The ache in his voice disarmed me. For the first time, I saw not just my father — but a man still broken by the woman he lost.