Now, with a parent-teacher meeting two days away — where my father said he’d attend uninvited — and the promise of a visit to my old med school looming, I was bracing myself.
I wanted to avoid confrontation, but I knew things were about to get worse or, at least, more exposed.
The uneasy quiet in the kitchen lingered, full of unsaid things, as we all waited for what might come next.
My father, his fork still poised above his plate, seemed lost in thought, his eyes reflecting a mix of frustration and something else, something softer.
My son, unaware of the gravity of his words, continued to eat, his small hands steady, focused on the task at hand.
Outside, the streetlights flickered on, casting a dim glow through the window, adding to the already tense atmosphere.
The room felt smaller, the walls closing in as if the weight of the silence was too much for the space to bear.
I glanced at my father, hoping for a change in his expression, a sign of understanding, but his face remained impassive, a closed book.
My heart ached with the weight of unspoken words, each beat a reminder of the gap between us, a chasm widened by expectation and disappointment.
In the quiet of that moment, I realized how much I had hoped for his approval, how deeply I yearned for a connection that seemed just out of reach.
But here we were, caught in a dance of silence and expectation, each of us unwilling to bridge the gap.
As the evening wore on, the reality of the situation settled over me like a heavy cloak, the promise of resolution slipping further away.
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