The headset crackled with a familiar voice. I leaned closer to the drive-thru window and laughed—my dad hated fast food. “Well, that’s a first,” I joked.
I packed his order myself, trying to make it perfect. But when his beat-up Ford reached the window, something felt off—he stared straight ahead like he couldn’t blink.He cranked the window down slowly. The glass screeched as it fell, and when he finally looked at me, tears were already running down his face.
“I made it special for you,” I said, but my voice died halfway through. His hands trembled. He didn’t even reach for the bag right away—he just stared at me like he was saying goodbye.He took the food and set it aside. “What’s wrong, Dad?” I whispered. He swallowed hard, and his voice came out cracked and thin.
“I’m leaving you and mom,” he choked out—then slammed the truck into gear and tore out of the lot, leaving me frozen with my hand still in the air.I called him again and again. It didn’t even ring. Just voicemail. When it hit me that he’d blocked me, I grabbed my keys and ran.
The drive home felt unreal. A part of me expected to see his Ford parked like nothing happened. But the driveway was empty—and the front door was open.
Inside, the living room looked torn apart. Drawers dumped out. Boxes half-packed. My stomach turned cold as I screamed, “Mom!”
I found her upstairs on the bed, clutching a family photo like it was keeping her alive. Her eyes were swollen and red, and the house smelled like his cologne and panic.
“He started grabbing things,” she sobbed. He wouldn’t look at her—just kept repeating that he was done, that he was leaving, that it was over.
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