Chapter 7 - What He Finally Asked
My position was eliminated in March.
There was a severance agreement, a reference letter, and a meeting where everyone used careful words for a thing that hurt anyway. I helped transfer my responsibilities, thanked my team, and returned my laptop on a Thursday.
Outside, Philadelphia continued being Philadelphia. A delivery truck blocked a bus. Someone argued into a phone. The world had apparently failed to notice I'd misplaced the title that made me feel safest.
I went home before lunch.
For two days, I organized cabinets.
On the third, Leah took the label maker away.
“Come for a walk.”
“I should be applying.”
“You sent eleven applications yesterday.”
We walked beside the river without making my unemployment inspirational. Sometimes an unpleasant thing was allowed to remain unpleasant.
Mom called that evening.
I told her the truth before I could turn it into an upbeat update.
“Oh, honey,” she said. “I'm sorry.”
Then she asked how I felt.
Not what I'd earned in severance. Not how quickly I'd replace the position. She stayed on the line while I explained the embarrassing fear that everything I'd built was temporary.
“Would you like me to tell your father?”
“You can.”
I regretted it immediately.
Dad called an hour later.
I let it ring three times before answering.
“Your mother told me,” he said.
“Okay.”
Silence stretched.
I prepared for advice, a comparison, perhaps a suggestion that Morris Family Advisory suddenly made sense.
“Are you sleeping?” he asked.
The question was so unexpected that I didn't answer.
“Some,” I said finally.
“Eating?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to listen, or would you rather I let you go?”
I sat down on the arm of the couch.
“What's happening?”
He made a rough sound that wasn't quite a laugh.
“Your mother said I should stop treating every conversation like a performance review.”
“She's right.”
“I'm finding that out.”
He told me he'd started counseling. I didn't congratulate him as if attendance were the same as change. I asked what he wanted me to know.
“I wanted you to know losing that job doesn't say anything about your worth.”
My throat tightened.
“That's a very different opinion from the one you had when I was fourteen.”
“Yes.”
No explanation followed.
I waited longer.
“I said something unforgivable,” he continued. “Then I spent years behaving as though it was sensible.”
I stared at the floor.
“Why?”
He took so long I thought the call had dropped.
“Tyler was good at things I understood. Sports. Talking to people. I knew how to brag about him. You were quieter. You liked things I didn't understand. I treated that as something missing in you.”
“It wasn't.”
“I know.”
I wiped my face with my sleeve, annoyed by the tears and relieved he couldn't see them.
“That doesn't fix it,” I said.
“No.”
“I'm still angry.”
“I believe you.”
We stayed on the phone for another ten minutes. Mostly silence. This time, it didn't feel like waiting to be dismissed.
I asked what he remembered about my college graduation. He said the weather, the crowded parking lot, and how quickly I'd wanted to leave after dinner. I told him I had an evening shift. He hadn't known. Then he started to say I should have told him, caught himself, and stopped. That pause mattered more than an elegant answer would have. I could almost hear him choosing between the familiar defense and the uncomfortable question. He asked where I'd worked. I told him the restaurant's name and described the black apron I had kept folded beneath my graduation gown in the car. He made a sound like something had hurt. I didn't comfort him. I let the fact remain between us long enough to belong to both our memories. After a while, he asked if there were other things he'd missed. I said there were years of them, and I couldn't tell him all of it tonight. He said we didn't have to do it all tonight. I thanked him.
Before hanging up, Dad asked whether he could call the following week.
May you like
I looked toward the window, where the city lights had begun to come on.
“Sunday,” I said. “After four.”
