as if he were chewing on the words he couldn’t quite say. “This…this isn’t what you should be working for,” he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. The frustration in his eyes was palpable, but so was something else—fear, perhaps, or regret.
I wanted to argue, to demand why he couldn’t just be proud of me, why he couldn’t see the value in what I had achieved. But words failed me, lost in the haze of hurt and disappointment. Instead, I sat across from him, the kitchen table a vast, unbridgeable chasm between us.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. It was the same silence that had enveloped our house since my mother passed away, a silence filled with unspoken grief and unresolved anger. I thought of all the nights I had come home late, quietly so as not to disturb him, and how he had never asked how my day was or if I needed anything.
