He arrived forty minutes later.
My mother was with him.
Dad saw the dinner.
He saw Derek’s empty closet.
He saw me trying not to shake.
He asked no questions.
“Pack your medications,” he said.
“Dad—”
“You’re coming home.”
I looked at Mom.
She nodded.
That night, for the first time since the fire, I slept somewhere Derek couldn’t reach me.
A week later, he came to my parents’ house.
He stood on the porch.
No flowers.
No apology.
No concern.
He didn’t ask whether my grafts were healing.
He didn’t ask about my pain.
He didn’t ask when my next surgery was scheduled.
“I want a divorce.”
My father stepped forward.
I touched his arm.
“No.”
Dad looked at me.
“I need to hear this.”
I faced Derek.
“You want a divorce?”
