I knew because I heard his voice downstairs.
“Eleanor, please. I need to see my daughter.”
Grandma’s voice was ice.
“You needed to see her when she was limping through your house in a medical boot.”
“Don’t do this.”
“You did this.”
“I made mistakes.”
“You made choices.”
I sat at the top of the stairs wrapped in a blanket, my cast resting against the banister.
Dad sounded smaller than I had ever heard him.
“Please. Five minutes.”
Grandma said, “Chloe decides.”
I almost said no.
I should have said no.
But some part of me needed to see his face and know whether a father was still in there.
Grandma helped me downstairs.
Dad looked awful. Unshaven. Red-eyed. His coat wrinkled like he had slept in it.
For a second, I saw the dad who taught me to ride a bike, running behind me with one hand on the seat, shouting, “I’ve got you!”
Then I remembered the way he let go.
“Chloe,” he said.
I sat in Grandma’s armchair.
“You have five minutes.”
His eyes filled.
“I am so sorry.”
I waited.
“I should have listened to you.”
“Yes.”
“I should have stopped her.”
“Yes.”
“I was grieving.”
“No.”
He flinched.
“You were cheating,” I said.
His face crumpled.
“It wasn’t that simple.”
I laughed without humor.