I was getting ready for work, going through my morning routine like I did every day. I brushed my hair, picked out clothes, and tried to keep my mind on the tasks waiting for me. Meetings to prepare for, emails to answer, and the usual rush that came with the job. My hands moved automatically, but inside, I felt a quiet tension I couldn't shake.
The apartment was still and quiet, the early morning sun casting soft shadows across the walls. I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection — tired eyes framed by the strands of hair I had hastily brushed away. The day ahead seemed normal, but the tightness in my chest told a different story. I had learned to carry that tension with me, like a shadow that never quite left. Still, I told myself to focus. Today was important. I needed to be ready for anything.
Just as I reached for my phone to check the time, it buzzed loudly on the counter. The sudden sound made me jump slightly. I hadn't expected any messages, especially not so early.
I looked down and saw a new message — from my father.
My heart skipped. I wasn't expecting to hear from him, especially not now.
The screen lit up with his words: "Hope you're okay."
They were simple words, but in that moment, they felt heavy — like a quiet knock on a door I thought was long closed. I stared at the message, my fingers frozen.
I hadn't heard from him in years. Not since everything fell apart. Not since the day they left me, alone in that empty house with broken walls and quieter nights. Now, out of nowhere, he reached out. Why? After all this time?
The room felt heavy around me. I put the phone down on the table but couldn't stop thinking. What did he want? Was it real concern? Or just guilt? Or maybe something else I didn't want to face?
Memories rose unbidden — nights spent waiting by the window, hoping for a familiar silhouette. The arguments I overheard, muffled voices filled with blame and silence. My mother's tears in the dark kitchen, my father's cold distance. The moment I saw them leave together — but not for me.
I pushed those memories away, but they returned anyway. The ache in my chest wasn't just from the past; it was from the fear that maybe I still cared, even if I didn't want to.
I looked at the phone again and typed a message, then deleted it. Typed again. Deleted again.
"Thanks." Too short. But maybe enough.
"I'm okay." But was I?
Before I could send anything, the phone buzzed again. Another message from him.
"If you want to talk, I'm here."
The words made my heart pound. Part of me wanted to scream, to say, "You left me!" But another part, quieter and softer, wanted to reach out — to find some kind of peace or maybe just answers.
I didn't reply.
Instead, I sat back on the couch and closed my eyes. The past and present collided inside me. The little girl who needed her parents. The woman who had learned to protect herself. The hope that maybe, just maybe, things could be different.
A knock on the door broke my thoughts.
It was Jordan.
"I heard about the message," Jordan said gently as she stepped inside. "Are you okay?"
I looked up, surprised. "How did you know about the message?"
Jordan sighed softly, taking a seat across from me. "Your dad messaged me too. He asked me to take care of you."
I blinked, feeling a mix of emotions—surprise, confusion, even a little fear. "He did? When?"
"Just this morning," Jordan said quietly. "He sounded worried. More worried than I expected."
I nodded slowly, trying to make sense of it all. It was strange — like pieces of a past I wasn't ready to face were suddenly coming back to life, uninvited but impossible to ignore.
I shrugged, the weight of it pressing down on my shoulders. "I don't know. It's been years. I didn't expect to hear from him. And now… I'm not sure what to feel."
Jordan gave me a small, understanding smile. "That makes sense. Sometimes people come back when we least expect it, and it stirs everything up — old feelings, old wounds."
"I don't want to open old wounds," I said quietly. "But it's hard not to wonder if maybe he really cares."
"He might," Jordan said carefully. "Or maybe he's trying to fix something. Or maybe he just wants to see if you'll let him in."
I sighed, feeling the weight of it all sink deeper. "I'm scared, Jordan. Scared to hope. Scared to let him back in and get hurt again."
"That's okay," Jordan said softly, reaching out to squeeze my hand. "You don't have to decide right now. Just take your time."
We sat together in silence, the quiet a comfort amid the storm inside my mind.
Later, I pulled out my old journal — the one I kept as a kid. Flipping through the yellowed pages, I found notes and drawings from a different time, a different me. The little girl who believed things could get better. Who dreamed of a family that didn't break apart.
Maybe it was time to believe that again.
Maybe it was time to start forgiving, not for him, but for myself.
I picked up my phone once more and finally typed a message.
"I'm not ready to talk yet. But thank you."
I hit send and felt a small weight lift off my chest.
The past was still there. The hurt, the pain, the broken pieces.
But maybe the future didn't have to be.
For the first time in a long time, I let myself breathe a little easier.
After a moment, I stood and stretched. "I should get ready," I said, more to myself than to Jordan.
Jordan nodded, standing up as well. "I'm coming with you."
I looked at her, surprised. "Really?"
She smiled warmly. "Yeah. You don't have to do this alone."
I laughed softly, shaking my head. "We work in the same office, Jordan. There's no way we're not going together."