My room was larger than the entire living room I’d shared with Dad.
I had expensive clothes, nice food, and things I’d once believed would make me happy.
But something felt wrong.
My mother was physically there, yet she never seemed interested in the ordinary parts of my life.
She didn’t ask whether I was happy.
She didn’t ask whether I missed Dad.
And whenever I mentioned him, she changed the subject.
Then, one weekend, I returned to my hometown to visit some old friends.
On an impulse, I decided to stop by the house where Dad and I had lived.
The moment I opened the front door, my blood ran cold.
The house was almost empty.
The couch was gone.
The television was gone.
The photographs that had once covered the walls were gone.
It looked less like a home and more like an abandoned shell.
