When I was 13, my father left without warning. No goodbye, no explanation. I stood in the driveway screaming after him, but he never looked back. My mom and I were left to pick up the pieces, learning to survive and heal—just the two of us. Years passed. Mom became my rock. We struggled, sure, but we had each other. I promised myself I’d never need him again. Then one evening, driving home from work, I saw a man and a young girl hitchhiking. Something about his stance made my heart stop. I pulled over—and as they approached, I saw the face I hadn’t seen in a decade. It was him. My dad. He looked older,

, worn down. The girl beside him smiled innocently. I let them in. The ride was quiet and tense. I eventually asked, “Tell me that’s not my sister.” He said no. Her name was Sarah, the daughter of a woman who had left him. The irony was thick. I couldn’t stay silent. I told him what his leaving had done to us—how my mom worked two jobs, how I was teased at school,