I can only see my dad through glass now because I haven’t spoken to him in six years.
Even after moving into my own apartment and nearing thirty, my dad still called me his little girl. We used to be close—until a fight six years ago tore us apart. It wasn’t really about politics; it was grief, control, and two people no longer speaking the same emotional language. I shut the door, and neither of us reached back out.Then I got a call. A woman from a facility told me my dad had been admitted a month ago—dementia, then pneumonia. No visitors allowed. I hadn’t even known he’d left his home. I went,
