Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

When Dad Let Go

Collin

The rain was still coming down in a soft, steady drizzle, brushing against the windows like a lullaby that wouldn't quite sing me to sleep. The house was dark only the porch light still on, casting a sleepy yellow glow through the thin curtains of my childhood bedroom. It was past midnight. Everyone had gone to sleep hours ago. Billie, in the guest room. Mom and Dad down the hall. Even the dog was out cold, his old paws twitching somewhere in a dream.

But I couldn't close my eyes.

Not after today. Not after all that digging through boxes, folding up who I used to be and handing it away for five bucks and a handshake. The damp air still smelled like wet wood and sugar cookies, and my shoulders ached from hauling memories out onto the lawn.

I sat up in bed, hugging my knees under the quilt, hair still damp from the storm. My thoughts wouldn't stop spinning.

My old cleats. The VHS tapes. That Yankees cap of Derek's I thought I'd never part with. I sold it. I actually sold it. To some junior high kid who wanted to "look cool for the summer." I smiled a little at that. Letting go wasn't always loud and dramatic. Sometimes it was just handing over a piece of the past and hoping it fits someone else better now.

And I guess that's what I was doing, wasn't it?

Letting go of who I thought I had to be.

I was always the daughter who colored inside the lines. Who threw like a boy but curtsied like a pageant queen. Who smiled when she was supposed to and never left the dinner table without saying thank you. I played the role, wore the dress, kissed the boy everyone thought I should.

But Billie never asked me to be that version of myself. Not once.

And if my dad said yes, if he really gave us his blessing - this would be more than just a change of address. It would be the start of something completely mine. Not something borrowed or expected. Something I could grow into without folding myself up to fit someone else's frame.

Something real.

A marriage. A move. A life that actually felt like mine.

Outside, the wind rustled the trees. I glanced at the ring on my nightstand, sitting still. I hadn't put it back on yet, not since I tucked it away at the gas station. But it was still there. Waiting. Like the life I hadn't quite stepped into yet.

I reached over, and let my fingers rest on the band.

I wasn't scared of the ring anymore.

I was scared of who I'd be without it.

And that was how I knew.

I was ready.

Even if the world I'd always known wasn't.

I stayed like that a while, legs tucked under me, fingers resting on the ring box, heart thudding low and steady like a far off train.

I didn't know when it had shifted, but somewhere between the coastlines of California and the rusted folding tables of my childhood lawn, something in me had started to settle. Not in the way people settle for something, but in the way roots quietly reach toward soil that finally feels right.

I wasn't a girl anymore. I hadn't been for a long time. But tonight it really hit me - how much I'd been carrying, trying to be soft and sharp at the same time. Trying to be the daughter they raised, the woman I wanted to be, the one who could hold Billie's world and still hold her own.

And maybe, for the first time, I didn't feel like I had to choose.

But damn, the weight of it still sat heavy in my chest. Like all this becoming wasn't supposed to happen so fast, or all at once.