Chapter 38- Ellie
The day before Dad leaves
The house feels different today.
Not heavy like before.
Not suffocating.
Just… softer.
Like the sadness is still there, but it’s wrapped in something warm. Something gentle. Something like acceptance.
I woke up this morning feeling lighter than I expected. Maybe it’s because I’ve cried enough. Maybe it’s because I’ve had time to process. Maybe it’s because Dad has been smiling more today — real smiles, not the forced ones.
Or maybe it’s because deep down, I know we’re going to be okay.
Eventually.
I walk into the kitchen, rubbing my eyes, and Dad is already there humming to himself as he stirs something on the stove. The smell hits me instantly — tomatoes, garlic, cilantro, the familiar warmth of home.
“Is that…?” I ask, already smiling.
He grins. “Your favorite. Figured we needed one last homemade meal together.”
My chest tightens, but in a good way. “Thank you, Daddy.”
We sit at the table, bowls steaming, and for a moment it feels like any other day. We eat. We talk. We laugh — real laughter, the kind that makes my stomach hurt a little.
He tells me stories about my grandma.
He teases me about Oliver.
I roll my eyes and pretend I’m not blushing.
It’s normal.
It’s peaceful.
It’s perfect in a way that makes my heart ache.
When we finish eating, I help him clean up, then follow him outside where the last few boxes sit by the car. The sun is warm, the sky clear, and everything feels too calm for what tomorrow is.
“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Let’s finish this.”
We load the boxes one by one — clothes, tools, books, little pieces of him that won’t be here tomorrow. I try not to think about it too hard. I try to focus on the moment, on being helpful, on being present.
But every time I look at the boxes, something inside me twists.
When we’re done, he wipes his forehead and smiles at me. “Thank you, sweet pea.”
I swallow, suddenly nervous. “I… I have something for you.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
I go inside and grab the small stack of envelopes from my nightstand — five of them, each one labeled in my handwriting.
When I come back out, he’s leaning against the car, waiting.
I hand them to him with shaking fingers.
“These are for you,” I say softly. “For… when you need them.”
He looks down at the envelopes, reading each label:
“Open when you’re sad.”
“Open when you’re happy.”
“Open when you’re angry.”
“Open when you’re scared or overwhelmed.”
“Open when you need to remember how much I admire you.”
His breath catches.
“Sweet pea…” he whispers, voice breaking.
I blink fast, trying not to cry. “I just… I want you to have something from me. For when I’m not there. For when you miss me. Or when you need me.”
He presses the letters to his chest, eyes shining. “Sweet pea… these are… these mean more than you know.”
I step closer, wrapping my arms around him. He hugs me back instantly, holding me tight, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me.
“I’m going to be okay,” I whisper into his shoulder. “I promise.”
He nods against my hair. “I know. And I will be too.”
We stand there for a long time — just holding each other, just breathing, just letting the moment settle.
But later — when he goes inside to shower — I break.
Quietly.
Softly.
In the hallway where no one can see.
I slide down the wall, pressing my hands to my face as the tears spill over. Not the loud, shaking kind. Just… steady. Heavy. The kind that feels like they’ve been waiting all day.
Because I know this is right.
I know he needs to go home.
I know his mom needs him.
I know he needs to heal too.
But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.
I cry because I’m proud of him.
I cry because I’m scared.
I cry because I’m growing up faster than I wanted to.
I cry because letting go is part of loving someone.
And I love him so much.
When I finally wipe my face and stand up, I feel… different.
Not better.
Not worse.
Just… clearer.
This is life.
This is change.
This is what it means to love someone enough to let them go when they need to go.
Later that evening, we sit on the porch together, watching the sky turn orange and pink. Dad sips his coffee. I sip my tea. Neither of us talks for a while.
Then he says, “You know… you’re stronger than you think.”
I look at him, surprised.
He smiles softly. “You’ve handled all of this with so much grace. More than I ever could’ve at your age.”
I swallow hard. “I’m trying.”
“I know,” he says. “And I’m proud of you. So proud.”
The words hit me like a warm wave. I lean my head on his shoulder, and he kisses the top of my hair.
We stay like that until the sun disappears.
That night, I help him zip up his last suitcase. He double-checks everything — passport, wallet, charger, the envelopes I gave him tucked safely inside.
“Tomorrow’s going to be okay,” he says gently.
I nod, even though my throat is tight. “I know.”
He cups my cheek, brushing away a tear I didn’t realize had fallen. “You’re my sweet pea. You always will be.”
I smile through the ache. “And you’re my Daddy.”
He pulls me into one last hug before bed — long, warm, grounding.
Tomorrow will hurt.
Tomorrow will be hard.
Tomorrow everything changes.
But today…
Today is ours.
And it’s enough.