My dad watched that interview standing up in our living room, arms folded, pretending he wasn’t emotional. But when the camera zoomed in on my face and they called me “one of the most promising young founders in the city,” I heard him let out this shaky breath from behind me.
When I turned around, his eyes were wet.
He laughed and wiped them fast. “Don’t get cocky.”
I grinned. “Too late.”
That night we ate takeout on the couch with the TV still on in the background. My phone buzzed all evening with congratulations. Friends, professors, people I barely knew.
And somewhere in the middle of all that noise, a quiet thought slipped in.
If she saw me now, would she be proud?
I hated that I wondered.
I hated that some small, stubborn part of me still cared.
Then last Saturday happened.
I was home for the weekend, helping Dad fix the back fence. It was late afternoon, hot and still, and we were arguing about whether the new post was straight when he suddenly looked past me toward the front yard.
“Dylan,” he said, in a voice I’d never heard before.
I turned.
There was a woman standing at the edge of our porch.
She was elegant in a polished, careful way. Expensive blouse. Perfect hair. Sunglasses pushed onto her head. She looked like someone who belonged in hotel lobbies and airport lounges, not on the cracked concrete step of our little house.
I knew who she was instantly.
Not because I remembered her.
Because I had imagined her face a thousand different ways, and somehow reality still recognized me first.
“Dylan,” she said softly. “It’s been a long time.”
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