Chapter 2: The Empty Apartment
The drive back to the city was eerily quiet. The heater in my sedan blew a dry, rhythmic hum against the windshield, melting the thin film of ice that had formed while we were parked outside my father’s colonial. Lily had fallen asleep somewhere around the county line, her head resting against the passenger door window, her breath fogging the glass in tiny, rhythmic circles.
When we finally pulled into the gravel lot behind our apartment building, the engine ticking as it cooled down, I didn't turn off the ignition immediately. I sat there in the dark, staring at the amber glow of the dashboard lights. My hands were still resting on the steering wheel, and my fingers felt stiff, cramped from the white-knuckle grip I had maintained for two hours on the highway.
"Dad?" Lily murmured, her voice thick with sleep as she blinked against the streetlight filtering through the windshield. "Are we home?"
"Yeah, kiddo. We're home," I said, reaching across the console to unbuckle her seatbelt.
Carrying her up the three flights of stairs to our second-floor apartment felt heavier tonight. It wasn't her weight—she was small for seven, all sharp elbows and bird bones—it was the cumulative weight of everything unsaid between Arthur and me. I tucked her into her narrow twin bed beneath the quilt her grandmother had sewn before she passed away. For a long time, Mom had been the only bridge left standing over the chasm between my father's world and mine. With her gone, the bridge had rotted away completely, leaving only ash and awkward holiday visits driven entirely by guilt.
I closed her bedroom door halfway, leaving a sliver of hallway light cutting across the scuffed hardwood floor, and walked back to the tiny kitchen.
The apartment was cold. I kept the thermostat low to save on heating bills, a habit I had picked up during my first year out on my own, long before I realized how deeply my father's refusal to help would sting. I pulled off my green cardigan, tossing it over the back of a wooden kitchen chair, and stared down at the small stack of mail piled near the toaster.
Bills, circulars, a notice about the neighborhood association. Nothing of consequence.
I poured myself a glass of tap water, leaning against the chipped laminate counter. My reflection stared back at me from the dark kitchen window—the sharp jawline, the tired eyes, the exact same expression Arthur had worn when he looked down his nose at anyone who didn't measure up to his rigid architectural standards.
Because you weren't supposed to be here.
His words echoed in the small room, stripping away the last illusion I had carried about our relationship. For years, I had blamed myself. I thought my decision to drop out of architecture school, to take a quiet, steady job as a municipal land surveyor instead of joining his corporate firm, was the original sin that caused the rift. I thought if I just worked hard enough, if I lived a clean, respectable life, he would eventually look at me and see a son worth claiming.
Tonight proved the bitter opposite. It wasn't about my career choices. It was about erasure. I didn't fit into the narrative he was building for his retirement years—a wealthy, elite patriarch surrounded by high-society parasites who stroked his ego while he doled out favors.
My phone buzzed on the counter, vibrating against the laminate with a harsh, insistent rattle. I picked it up. Arthur's name flashed across the screen, glowing in the dark room.
I stared at it for three rings, four rings, watching the indicator light pulse. Then, instead of declining it, I swiped to answer, pressing the phone to my ear without saying a word.
"Ethan," Arthur's voice came through the speaker, crisp, controlled, and dripping with defensive irritation. "I trust you've calmed down by now. Making a scene in front of my associates was entirely unnecessary. You always did have a flair for unwarranted melodrama."
The audacity of it—the sheer, staggering weight of his self-absorption—sent a cold wave of clarity through my chest.
"I made a scene?" I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. "You hid my seven-year-old daughter at a folding table in the hallway behind the kitchen so your wealthy friends wouldn't have to look at family you're ashamed of."
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, the sound of a distant door closing, muffled laughter leaking through from his dining room.
"Don't be absurd," Arthur snapped, lowering his voice. "The house was at capacity. You didn't RSVP. You showed up unannounced, expecting special treatment. You’ve always expected the world to bend around your lack of planning. If you want to raise Lily in that rat-trap apartment of yours, that's your choice. But don't come into my home and disrupt my life just because you can't manage yours."
May you like
The click of the disconnect tone was sharp and final.
I lowered the phone slowly, staring at the blank screen. For the first time in my life, I didn't feel the urge to call back, to justify myself, or to seek his approval. The door had been slammed shut, and for the first time, I realized I was the one holding the key to lock it from the outside.
