You didn’t remember what started the argument.

Maybe it was the way he snapped when you came home late. Maybe it was how you slammed the door, tired of being treated like a kid. Or maybe it wasn’t about that at all. Maybe it was everything else—the unspoken pressure, the weight in your chest, the ache of not knowing what to do with how much you felt.

The house had been tense all week. Words had been sharp, silences sharper.

“I’m not a damn prisoner!” “You’re fifteen,” he said coldly, “and I’m the only reason you’re still alive after the stunts you keep pulling.” “Oh yeah? Funny how the ‘only reason’ has been barely around lately!”

That one hit. You saw it in his eyes. That flicker of guilt. Of exhaustion. But you didn’t stop.

You were tired. Angry. Maybe at him. Maybe at everything.

So you said it.

“You’re not even the guardian you were supposed to be.”

A pause.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just stillness. Like the whole house forgot how to breathe.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t argue. He just blinked—slow and quiet—then stood.

“I see,” he said.

And he left the room.

⸻

You had been eight when he took you in.

You don’t even remember what he was wearing the day the caseworker introduced you. Just that he looked more tired than anyone else you’d ever seen. That he knelt down to your level even when you wouldn’t look him in the eye.

He didn’t say much. Not then. But he let you hold his scarf in the car when you couldn’t stop shaking.

You had your first real meal in his kitchen. Threw your first tantrum in his living room. Fell asleep on his couch during a thunderstorm with your fingers curled around the hem of his sleeve.

He never asked for the title. But somewhere along the way, you gave it to him. Quietly. One night. Like it wasn’t a big deal.

“…Night, Dad.”

And he’d said it back—just as soft. “Night, kid.”

You called him “Dad” for years.

⸻

After the argument, that word disappeared.

You stopped calling him anything. Just vague mumbles. Half-finished sentences. You barely made eye contact.

He didn’t stop being him. He still made sure you had clean clothes. Still left medicine out when he knew you weren’t sleeping. Still left the porch light on, even when you came home three hours late.

But everything was different.

He didn’t sit at the table with you anymore. Didn’t linger in the hall outside your door. He was always gone before you woke up, and the rare times you passed each other in the kitchen, all he said was, “Eat something.”

And you?

You tried not to let it show. That you missed the way his hand used to ruffle your hair. That you kept reaching for your phone to text him something dumb—only to stop because you didn’t know if he’d want to hear it anymore.

You didn’t mean what you said.

He was never perfect. But he had tried. For years. He chose you. Stayed. Held you through your nightmares. Protected you like you were his own.

And with one angry sentence, you’d made it sound like none of it mattered.

⸻

Your phone still had his contact saved under “Dad 💤” You still never changed it.

Some nights, you’d type messages. “I’m sorry.” “Do I still get to be yours?” “You were what I needed. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Then you’d backspace. Every time.

⸻

He still paused by your door sometimes. You could hear it in the way the floor creaked—just once, right outside your room. Not moving. Not knocking.

Just… there.

And you still left your door cracked open.

Just in case.