I could picture the scene before she even described it—warm lights, full table, Sadie telling stories from Ashford Heights while my father looked proud.
“Can I talk to Dad?” I asked.
There was a pause.
Then, muffled but unmistakable, I heard his voice in the background.
“Tell her I’m busy.”
The words landed softly, but they landed hard.
My mother came back on the line too quickly.
“He’s in the middle of something.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I just wanted to say hi.”
She asked whether I was eating enough, whether I needed anything.
I looked down at the instant noodles on my desk and the cheap blanket wrapped around my shoulders.
“No,” I said. “I’m fine.”
After I hung up, I made the mistake of opening social media.
The first photo I saw was Sadie sitting between our parents at the Thanksgiving table, all three of them smiling into the camera.
The caption read: “So grateful for my family.”
I stared at the image and counted the place settings.
Three.
It should not have hurt anymore, but it did.
Still, that was the night something changed for good. The hope that they might eventually become different did not vanish all at once. It simply dimmed. And when it dimmed, disappointment lost some of its power.
