On a random Tuesday, my mom’s name lit up my phone at the exact time she should’ve been in class. The call went to voicemail, and a text followed: “He called. Your father. Can you come over?”
My stomach dropped.
By the time I walked into the kitchen, half my siblings were pretending not to eavesdrop. Mom sat at the table with her phone in front of her like it might bite. Her eyes were red, but her voice stayed steady.
“He wants to come home.”
I actually laughed. “Home? Like this home? Our home?”
She nodded slowly. “Apparently the choir girl is gone. He says he’s made mistakes. He says he misses us.”
I sat across from her. “Mom, he walked out when you were eight months pregnant with Hannah. He didn’t just make mistakes. He blew everything up.”
“I believe people deserve forgiveness.”
“I know,” she whispered. “I remember.”
Behind her, ten school pictures lined the wall in mismatched frames — all the “blessings” he used to brag about from the pulpit before he bailed.
“What did you say to him?”
