Broken Promises

3 | noah

I'm not sure what I'd been expecting to find upon reaching my father's place.

All I can say for sure is that I was not expecting the sight before me now, unable to believe this is real.

I glance through the windshield at a nice two-story house painted a shade of light blue, white shutters lining the large windows. Wooden rockers decorate the massive front porch, complemented with brightly-colored throw pillows—no doubt a woman's touch. If those pillows aren't a dead giveaway that my father has moved on from my mother, the well-tended to garden beneath the front bay window is.

I don't know how I feel about this.

I hadn't expected my father's place to appear so . . . nice. I mean, the place looks better than the house Mom and I have called home these past few years. Though the house looks nicer than what I'm used to, I know that it will never be my home.

Mom sets her truck into park, wearing an odd expression as she stares up at the house in front of us. She looks somewhat pained to be here. Maybe I'm not the only one slightly nervous to see Dad again after all this time. I'm sure this isn't easy on my mother.

As if reading my thoughts, Mom forces a smile as she glances at me. "We're here."

I'm unsure how to respond, so I don't. A flash of movement out of the window catches my attention. I turn to the windshield just as the front door of the house opens, revealing a figure stepping onto the porch.

Nerves cloud my brain and my breathing becomes unsteady. I'd never admit it, but I've often thought about what it would be like to see Dad again after all this time. I find myself wondering how the reality of the situation will play out.

Since Dad first left, I've tried my hardest to act like I don't care about him leaving. I've tried so hard to pretend like I don't feel or care about anything. The truth is that I do care. A lot. Especially about Dad's disappearance. Seeing him after so long is difficult to handle.

For a moment, I sit in the passenger seat and stare at my father through the glass that separates us. He doesn't look too different from the memories I have of him. His hair is the same dark shade of blond as mine. He's tall, clothed in a t-shirt in jeans. He seems to have a few more wrinkles around his brown eyes now, but it has been years.

The biggest change is that Dad looks . . . happy. That's the only word I can use to describe his expression as he meets my gaze through the windshield, wearing a wide smile as he waves in greeting.

I don't know how I feel about this realization. I remember Dad tending to be stressed and buried in work. He'd bring that stress home, and then the fights with Mom would start. Sometimes when I lay in bed at night, I can still hear the echoes of my parents screaming at each other in my memory.

Eventually, the fights did stop. Divorce papers were signed. A custody battle for my guardianship took place. Mom won. Dad left.

Now here we are.