When I walked into Dad’s house, I found him asleep in a chair beside a hospital bed. My childhood bedroom had been converted into a recovery room, and medical equipment filled the space where my posters once hung.
Dad had suffered a serious heart attack only days after I left with Mom.
He had not called because he didn’t want me to feel guilty or believe I had to return out of obligation. My aunt had been caring for him while he recovered. On the table beside his chair were unopened envelopes addressed to me, each containing money he had saved from his four jobs.
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