Page 171 of Ruthless Court
I read it once.
Then again.
Dad has never apologized easily. Not to players. Not to parents. Not to officials after technical fouls he insisted were misunderstandings.
I wipe beneath one eye before the tear reaches my cheek.
Dad: I thought we wanted the same thing because you were always there.
There it is.
The misunderstanding that shaped both of us.
He saw me in the gym and thought I chose his future.
I was choosing him.
Me: I wanted to be with you.
The words sit between us.
No typing bubble.
No answer.
I nearly lock the phone when it appears.
Dad: I know that now.
My throat closes.
I lie back across the neatly ironed sheets and stare at the ceiling.
Maybe I was unfair.
Maybe he was selfish.
Maybe we loved each other and built the wrong life around it.
More than one thing can be true.
Me: I’m still mad.
His response comes quickly.
Dad: You get that from your mother.
Me: I get everything useful from Mom.
Dad: There’s my girl.
I laugh through the tears.
Me: I actually love one of my jobs. I think I understand you more than you realize.
Dad: What job?
I hesitate.
