Brielle had been accepted into a university to study public policy, while Taryn was heading to another city for biomedical engineering. They had spent years talking about independence, and I had spent those same years encouraging it.
Then acceptance letters arrived, and I realized independence meant they were actually going to leave me.
That realization was still settling in when Father’s Day came around.
Usually, the girls made breakfast.
By “made breakfast,” I mean Brielle gave instructions while Taryn burned at least one piece of toast and insisted it was intentional.
That year, there was no smell of bacon, no ridiculous handmade card, and no badly wrapped present waiting beside my coffee.
Instead, when I walked into the kitchen, both girls were already sitting at the table.
They looked unusually serious.
“Dad,” Brielle said, “sit down.”
I stopped.
“Why?”
“Just sit.”
Nothing good has ever followed those words in a parent’s life.
