I don’t really understand my father. He’s there, but he isn’t.

My grandparents say he used to hold me when I was a baby, feed me, rock me to sleep. But I don’t remember that. Now, when he comes home from work, he barely looks at me. When he does, his eyes are cold, like I did something wrong—but I don’t know what.

Grandma says he’s tired. Grandpa tells me to be good, to not bother him. But even when I try, he still gets angry. He doesn’t like when I laugh too loud or ask too many questions. He doesn’t like when I spill my juice or trip over my own feet. Sometimes, he doesn’t say anything at all, and that’s worse

But my uncle used to be different. He used to lift me high in the air, call me his little star. He used to tell me bedtime stories. Then one day, he left. They said he had to go far away for work.

At least Grandma and Grandpa are always here. Grandma braids my hair while humming songs I don’t know the words to. Grandpa lets me sit with him when he prays. But I still wish my father looked at me like that. Like he saw me. Like he wanted me.

Sometimes, I wonder if I did something bad before I could even remember.

Today is different. Grandpa keeps looking at the clock. Even Father is quiet—not the usual angry quiet, but the kind that means something is about to happen. Uncle is coming home today.

But will he still remember me?

I hope he still wants to lift me up and spin me around. I hope he still calls me his little star.

And then, suddenly, the wait is over.

The door swings open, and there he is—my uncle. Taller than I remember, and a smile that makes his whole face light up.

And then, he looks at me.

For a second, I freeze. What if he doesn’t recognize me? What if he doesn’t care anymore?

But then his eyes soften, and he crouches down, opening his arms wide. “Come here, little star.”

I don’t think. I run.