And I realized there are places we never lose
That day I was nervous. I was going to tell my dad about the separation. It had been two weeks since he left the house. Two weeks of postponing it. Hiding it. Trying to buy time. But I couldn’t anymore.
I was exhausted. Sad. Groundless. Needing comfort.
I left the house to find the courage. Before pressing the most dialed number on my phone, I walked aimlessly around the neighborhood. Fast steps. Distant gaze. Looking for the right words. There weren’t any.
I took a deep breath. And I called.
On the other side, I heard my dad’s voice. The same as always. Calm. Gentle. Steady. He even told me a few things about his day, as if it were a normal call. A normal day. And I let him speak for a few seconds, as if that could delay what was coming. But it couldn’t.
“Dad… we’ve separated.”
Silence.
“He moved out two weeks ago. I’ve been alone with the kids. I feel lost. I need you. I need comfort.”
And then I broke down. No filter. No control. Not knowing what to say next. Just crying. That kind of uncontrollable crying that doesn’t ask permission. That comes from somewhere deep, where there are no words left. No answers. No direction.
A group of boys passing by noticed me. They stopped. Asked if I was okay. If I needed help. I wasn’t. And I didn’t know what to say. I just shook my head and kept walking. One of them still reached out and offered me a chocolate. Such a small, unexpected gesture. I thanked him without being able to smile. And kept going. Crying.
On the other end, my dad’s voice had changed. It was softer now. Heavier. As if he was trying to hold everything together while staying strong for both of us.
If he could, he would have dropped everything in that moment to come and hold me. To steady me. I knew that. And even so, I asked him not to. Because in that moment, there were other people to protect. Even if that hug was exactly what I needed.
At some point, I stopped hearing his words. But I could still feel him. In the way he breathed. In the way he tried to keep his voice steady. In the way it faltered. I felt my dad crying with me on the other end of the line. I didn’t see the tears. But I heard them.
The call dropped. More than an hour had passed. He called back. And he stayed. He stayed until I calmed down. Until I could breathe again. While, on his side, he was also dealing with loss. Because it wasn’t just me. He was losing too.
That day, he lost someone who had already become like a son to him. And at the same time, he had to hold a daughter who was falling apart. From afar. Unable to do the one thing he wanted most: show up and hold me.
Since that day, we talk every day. More than ever. And I realized something I wasn’t expecting: my dad is even more than I thought. More open. More present. More whole. Less rigid.
He’s the one who pulls me back when I feel like I’m drowning. The one who always answers. Who never fails. Who holds me, even from a distance.
He is shelter. My safe place. He is peace. He is home. He always was. But now… even more.
The separation brought me a lot of pain. A lot of loss. But it also brought me this: finding my dad again. And a closeness I know will last forever.
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