I ignored it.
Then the voicemail notification popped up.
It was my father’s voice.
Older. Rougher. Unsteady in a way I’d never heard before.
“Son… we need to see you. We owe you the truth.”
Sleep didn’t happen that night.
For ten years, I’d pictured this moment in fantasies: me slamming the door, me yelling, me demanding every detail.
Instead, I felt frozen.
Anger, relief, dread—everything arrived at once like an accident you can’t look away from.
The Knock
Three days later, there was a soft knock at my front door.
Rusty barked once, then went still.
When I looked through the peephole, my stomach dropped.
My parents stood on the porch.
Ten years older. Ten years worn down.
And between them stood Sofia.
Her eyes looked hollow.
Like someone who had been carrying a secret heavy enough to bend her spine.
My father knocked again. “Ethan… please.”
I didn’t open the door.
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