Garage

The last time I saw my father, I was living in the apartment I had built in his garage…not metaphorically, but literally carving out a small space for myself because I refused to be his caretaker anymore. I needed boundaries, walls, a place where I wasn’t on call every second for someone who couldn’t see what it was costing me. I made a tiny world in a space never meant to hold one, just trying to survive. One day the garage door opened, and there I was standing in the life I had pieced together, and there he was. He just stared at me. No softness. No speech. Just a long, unreadable look. And then he closed the garage door without saying a word. No goodbye. No thank you. No fight. Just the mechanical hum as it came down between us, like a curtain dropping on a scene that would never get rewritten. The next morning I drove away to my friend Melissa’s in Arizona.

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