“Get out!” he shouted, his voice sharp like a slap.

I stared at him, frozen. Was he serious?

“You’ve got thirty minutes to pack your things. Then you’re gone.”

He was serious.

Behind him Sandra, my stepmom stood with that same smug smile she always wore when things went her way.

It was my 18th birthday. Happy birthday to me.

At first, I struggled sleeping most nights in my shitty car and as the years passed, I slowly started building something out of the mess I’d been left in.

I got an education. I found a decent job. Then a better one.

Eventually, I even found someone to love me really love me. Not because they had to. But because they saw me for who I had become.

Then one day, there was a knock at the door. I opened it without thinking, expecting a delivery or maybe a neighbor.

But there he was. My dad.

Older now. His face more lined, his shoulders a little more hunched. But it was him.

“Hey, kid,” he said, like nothing had happened.