As I took it from him, I noticed the gray hairs at his temples, and something inside me broke.
Not cracked. Not fractured. Broke. The way a dam breaks, all at once, the full weight of everything held back for years finding the weakness and pouring through it.
Without warning, I burst into tears, sobbing uncontrollably.
The yogurt shook in my hand. The car was dark and smelled like his aftershave and the leather of seats that had carried me to school a lifetime ago, and I was twenty-seven years old and crying like I was seven, and I couldn't stop. I couldn't stop because I was safe, and being safe after years of not being safe is the thing that finally undoes you.
"Dad, I'm home for good this time," I choked out between sobs. "I'm never leaving again. I'm going to stay here with you and Mom. Forever."
Dad chuckled again, this time a little more tenderly. He placed his hand flat on the steering wheel, palm down, fingers spread, and the gesture was so familiar it made me cry harder because it meant he'd already decided. He'd decided the moment he saw my face on the platform. He'd decided before I called. He'd probably decided the day I left.