The house was too big to hold someone who was sad.
Everything was too bright. The floors, the walls, the furniture… bright, as if the intention were to allow no shadows at all. Even the silence felt polished, organized, as if it didn't happen by chance, but because someone had ordered it that way.
I was sitting on a couch that looked expensive even in the way it sank beneath my weight. I had the feeling that if I breathed the wrong way, someone would notice. Not because it was forbidden, but because everything there had rules… even the air.
I was wearing a beautiful dress. One of those that isn't exactly yours. It's chosen, measured, approved.
"Looks good on you.""Matches the environment.""Gives off the right image."
My hands were folded on my lap. Straight posture, smile stored in the right place. I had been trained for this since early on, as if elegance were a way of not being a burden.
On the outside, everything was impeccable. On the inside, it felt like I was holding a door shut with my entire body.
My mother appeared in the hallway with her phone in her hand. She looked at the screen before she looked at me, as if whatever was there mattered more than anything I might be feeling.
She spoke in that practical tone she always used when she wanted to avoid conflict… or win one.
— Your stepfather's company party is tonight. He'll be happy if you go. You just need to be pleasant, talk to the right people… nothing too much.
"Nothing too much" was the phrase she used when it was too much. When there were photos. When people were watching. When reputation was involved.
I lifted my gaze slowly… my throat was dry. I knew before I spoke that this would turn into a fight. I just didn't know which one of us would lose first.
— I don't want to go.
My mother sighed as if I were asking for something inconvenient. Like delaying a flight.
— This isn't about wanting to. It's important to him, and to us.
She said us as if I were part of an agreement.
I stood up. It wasn't courage. It was impulse.
— He's not my father — I said. My voice came out louder than I meant it to, and the moment I heard it, I felt shame… and relief. — He's my stepfather. And I can't pretend anymore that this doesn't matter.
My mother followed me as I started walking through the living room, trying not to shake.
— Since you were eight years old, he's been here. He gave you security, affection. He gave us this life.
She gestured around, as if the house, the couch, the shining floor were moral arguments.
— That doesn't change the fact that he isn't my father — I replied, quieter. — And I'm going after mine. I need to.
"I need to" wasn't drama. It was lack of air.
I couldn't clearly remember his face. But I remembered things too small to be invented: the smell of smoke on his shirt, the way he called me Mel, a hand too big holding mine when I was little. My memories were like splinters.
My mother stepped further into the room, like someone closing a door.
— What do you think this will give you? — she asked. — A beautiful scene? A hug? Do you think he became a decent man just because you missed him?
The words hit harder than I wanted to admit.Because a part of me still believed exactly that. A pathetic part, maybe.
— I won't know if I don't go.
She tried to convince me with words I'd heard before."Not now.""You're confused.""Think about it.""Your father is here."
But this time, I wasn't confused. I was decided.
I went to my room, grabbed a random suitcase, and started throwing clothes inside. I didn't fold anything, didn't choose anything. I just threw things in… as if I needed to keep moving so I wouldn't think.
My mother stood still in the doorway.
— You can't just leave like this.
I zipped the suitcase shut with force.
— I can… and I will.
I left without looking back. Because I knew that trick: if I looked, I would see guilt. And guilt had always been the easiest way to make me return.
The bus station smelled like haste, sweat, and cheap coffee. Too many people, too many announcements, too much noise. No one knew me there, and that was almost a relief.
I bought the ticket with trembling hands, trying to look calm. Trying to look like someone who wasn't running away.
When the bus pulled away, I rested my forehead against the window.
The fear didn't disappear… it just changed places.
But for the first time, I wasn't being taken. I was going.
When I got off the bus, my heart was beating too fast, as if it were still trying to stop me.
The city felt darker and tighter. Nothing there shined. Everything was concrete, rust, weak streetlights, people with faces shaped by hard lives.
I searched for my father among the crowd and realized, with a jolt, that I didn't really know what he would look like now. I was looking for the man from my childhood in a place I didn't know.
Two men approached… one of them smiled as if he already knew me. He asked my name, if I was alone, if I needed company. I smiled awkwardly… they kept going.
Until a firm voice cut through the air.
— Leave her alone. She's with me.
I looked up.
He was leaning against a car. Straight posture, closed expression.
He walked over, took my suitcase without asking, put it in the trunk, and gave a short nod.
— Get in.
I recognized him instantly.
When we were kids, he lived with us for a while. The son of a close friend of my father, who died along with his wife in an accident. I was five, he was a few years older. My father brought him to our house so he wouldn't end up just anywhere. My mother never fully agreed… sometimes I think that helped lead to their separation.
I remembered him sitting on the floor of my room, helping me with homework, teaching me how to ride a bike, inventing games when I cried. I remembered him as someone who showed up so I wouldn't fall.
Now he was there… an adult, taller than I imagined he would be, dark hair falling in a messy way, pale skin marked by time. The features were the same, but hardened. A defined jaw, shoulders far too broad for the boy I kept in my memory.
I got into the car in silence. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, trying to fit the boy into that version. Trying to understand when the lighter part had been left behind.
He didn't ask how I was. Didn't say my name, didn't look at me… he just drove.
The silence stretched longer than I expected. The city passed outside in dark blocks, and it started to bother me.
— How did you know I was arriving today? — I asked, without looking directly at him.
He took a moment to answer.
— I didn't.
I frowned.
— But you were there.
— Your mother called your father — he said, simply. — Told him you were coming… more or less the time you'd arrive.
I swallowed hard.
— I had a piece of paper with the address — I said. — I took it from one of the few letters we exchanged after they separated. I thought that—
— Your father called me after — Vicente interrupted, without harshness. — Told me to come get you.
The way he said told didn't sound like an order. It sounded routine.
— You could've said no — I said.
He shrugged, almost imperceptibly.
— I could have.
The car kept moving. No further explanation. No justification.
I looked at him again from the side. At his firm hand on the wheel, at the alert posture of someone who always seemed ready for something to go wrong.
— Thank you — I murmured.
He didn't answer.
I turned back to the window. The city looked different from that angle, less threatening, as if someone had placed an invisible hand between me and the rest of the world.
I didn't know much about his life now. I only knew that when my father called, he came.
The building was simple. The hallway smelled of old food and cleaning products. Nothing there looked like a reunion. When we entered the apartment, I saw my father lying on the couch, the television on with no sound… bottles on the floor. The small living room felt suffocating.
He lifted his eyes slowly. Stared at me for a few seconds, as if trying to understand who I was…
— Make yourself comfortable — he said, his voice heavy. — You can sit… or take your bags to the bedroom, if you want.
He didn't stand up… didn't hug me, didn't ask how I got there, didn't ask why I was there.
I stood still, suitcase in hand, feeling my courage fail in a quiet way.
Because in that moment, I understood something simple and cruel:
I hadn't come to find my father…I had come to find what was left of him.