The snow was falling outside, blanketing the world in white. “You didn’t have to do any of this,” he said softly. “I know,” I replied.
“I wasn’t much of a father to you. I was always working. Always fighting with them.”
“You weren’t perfect,” I agreed, meeting his gaze.
“But you didn’t deserve to be erased.”
He nodded, tears finally spilling over. “So… what now?”
“Now,” I said, pouring us both a tea, “you live. And they remember.”
Diane tried to reconcile a year later.
She sent a letter. Apologized—sort of. Claimed she missed the family unit.
Claimed she was lonely. My father didn’t open the envelope. He held it in his hand, feeling the weight of the lies inside.
Then, he tossed it into the fireplace. We watched the flames curl around the paper, turning the ink into ash. “They thought I’d be their trash to throw away,” he said, the firelight dancing in his eyes.
“No,” I corrected, smiling. “They thought I’d be their trash collector. They forgot I’m your daughter.”
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