“When will you be back?” I asked Dad, watching as he zipped up two large suitcases. He was on the shorter side but broad and solid—someone most people wouldn’t want to mess with. He wore red and black sweats, his glasses catching the light as he looked at me with a rare softness in his eyes.
For weeks, I’d heard my parents argue more than ever before. Now, out of nowhere, Dad was leaving without saying where.
“I don’t know, boy,” he finally said, heading toward the stairs of our two-story row home.
Confused, I looked over at Mom. She was taller and thinner than Dad, with glasses like his, dressed in blue jeans and a red top. Her arms were crossed as she leaned against the door, eyes fixed on him as he started down the steps.
“Where is he going?” I asked her.
“Ask him,” she replied, stressing each word with a cold, bitter edge.
I followed Dad down the stairs. He struggled with his bags but still managed one step at a time. My little sister was asleep in her room as I passed by. “Where are you going?” I called out.
He paused, turning back to look at me for a second—as if he was about to answer—but stopped. “I’ll call you when I get there.” With that, he turned and went out the back door.
I looked back at Mom, who was crying silently, her hand pressed to her mouth. She quickly disappeared into her room and shut the door behind her.
I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t understand. Was he going TDY again—on temporary duty, like he had before? Was he visiting Na-Na, my great-grandmother? And why was he leaving so late? It didn’t occur to me that the arguments could have anything to do with it. All I knew was that Dad left without saying goodbye.
I knocked on Mom’s door and heard her on the phone.
“He left. He left us!” she said, her voice heavy with anger and pain.
I couldn’t tell who she was talking to, but I knew one thing—she hadn’t expected this. That made it worse. I stayed outside her door, trying to catch more of the conversation, and eventually picked up bits and pieces. It sounded like Dad was moving into his own place.
But why? Did I do something?
I thought about it. I wasn’t exactly the son he probably wanted. I was sensitive, not into the outdoors like he was, and didn’t care much for cars. Still, we were close. He’d been my coach in basketball and soccer. Sure, some people said I only made the team because I was his kid, but he held me to the same standards as everyone else.
My grades had started slipping since all the fighting began, and maybe that disappointed him. But wouldn’t he have told me if it was about my grades?
I remembered a conversation we’d had after the first quarter, when he’d teased me about Jessica—a white girl I’d been dating—and hinted maybe that was why my grades had dropped. The whole thing made me wonder why I was even dating her.
I liked Jessica, sure, but not as much as I liked Tracy or April, who were both Black. Jessica liked me, and, well, I wasn’t exactly a catch, so when she asked me out, I said yes.
We’d dated briefly last year after a big district competition. She’d cried on the bus ride home, and I’d felt bad for her. When we got back to class, I passed her a note asking her out, thinking it might cheer her up. She said yes—and broke up with me the next day.
I didn’t mind. We barely knew each other.
Now, in seventh grade, she’d asked if we could try again. I agreed, mostly because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings, even though my crushes on Tracy and April were stronger.
Dad would still tease me about Jessica from time to time, and I started wondering if that was the reason he left. He was a proud Black man—something I’d always heard from his friends. Our house was full of African art and figurines that made it clear what he valued.
But no. Dad wouldn’t leave because of that. He would’ve told me straight out, like he always did.
Still, confusion clawed at me, tightening my chest. What if he didn’t come back? Who was this “other woman” Mom was yelling about on the phone? And what could it all mean?
I’d made the all-star team this year—without Dad as my coach. I thought he’d be proud. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he felt replaced.
I thought about one game earlier in the season when he’d tried to give me advice at halftime. I’d snapped at him for the first time. The memory made me wince. I’d expected him to get angry, maybe even hit me, but he’d just nodded and gone back to the stands. After that, he never came to another game.
Maybe that was it. Maybe I needed to apologize.
All he was trying to do was help, and I’d yelled at him. Guilt built up, tightening my throat. My thoughts spun faster—wondering what else I’d done wrong. Maybe it wasn’t just me. Maybe it was Mom. Maybe it was all of us.
Nothing made sense.
I tossed around in bed, reaching for a comic book to distract myself. I stared at a picture of Jean Grey, wishing I could read minds—just so I’d know what Dad was thinking.
My eyelids grew heavy, the confusion and worry finally giving way to sleep. My last thought before drifting off was simple and painful:
It’s my fault. And I have to fix it.