I had no answer.
Some sentences do not ask to be forgiven. They ask to be witnessed.
After the signing, Dad asked if I would walk with him.
The sidewalks were slick. Bare branches clicked against each other in the wind. We walked slowly, hands in our coat pockets, like strangers trying not to startle each other.
“I found an apartment,” he said.
I looked at him.
“A small place near the park. One bedroom. Waiting list was short because it’s not fancy.”
“What about Mom?”
He exhaled.
“She says she isn’t leaving.”
I stopped walking.
“Dad.”
“I know.”
“You understand the legal process won’t stop because she refuses to pack.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still moving?”
He looked down the street.
“I asked her to come with me. I told her the house is over. She said if I loved her, I would make you stop.”
