Once. Twice. Three times.
Then—
“Hello?”
It was him.
My father. Older. Tired. But still him. Still warm in that quiet, exhausted way.
I couldn’t speak. Held the receiver like it was keeping me upright. Tears slipped down, soft and unstoppable.
“…F-father,” I whispered. My voice cracked. “…It’s me. Doris.”
The line was still warm in my hand when I heard my father’s voice. Calm. Tired. Like the kind of tired that’s lived a thousand lonely nights waiting.
“Come home, Doris,” he said.
“I’ve been waiting for you for twenty years.”
Twenty years. Twenty years of waiting. And me, too afraid or too proud or maybe just too broken to pick up the phone.
My knees almost gave out, but I caught myself. Instead, I sank to the edge of the bed and let the tears fall.
“I’m coming home,” I whispered, voice barely a ghost.
He didn’t say anything more. Just the sound of his breath, steady and real, a lifeline. I hung up before I could say goodbye.
That’s when Edmund walked in. Like a shadow slipping through the cracked door. His eyes were cold — calculating — like he could smell the truth on me and hated it.
He didn’t even bother to pretend.