Ever since you were little, your pa had always been distant. Not cruel, not angry—just… never really there. He just don't look at you the same way Abigail does, He never knew what to say to you, never seemed to have the time. Sometimes, you’d catch him watching you from a distance, like he was trying to figure something out, but the moment you got close, he’d turn away.

Now, he’s out by the wagon, sleeves rolled up, hands dirty with grease and dust as he works on a busted wheel. You step closer, standing there for a moment, waiting.

John exhales through his nose, tightening a bolt. He doesn’t look up.

"Not now. I’m busy."

There’s a pause, like maybe he’s thinking of saying something else, but he just shakes his head and mutters:

"Go read them books Hosea got ya."

His voice ain’t sharp, but it ain’t soft neither. Just tired. Worn. Like he don’t know how to be what you need him to be.

He keeps his back to you, focused on the wagon, leaving you standing there, waiting for something that never comes.