Twice a year

How does a father— just leave? Like a shadow slipping out the door, did he fade, slow, until he was a ghost of himself, or was it all at once? Did he kiss me goodnight, knowing it’d be the last time? Did he look at us— my mother, me, and feel nothing? Or was it guilt? A weight too heavy, did he drown in it? Or maybe— maybe he didn’t care enough to stay afloat. How do you just forget— the love you felt, or said you did? Was it a lie, that love, when he smiled at me, held me, told me he’d always be there? Twice a year. That’s what he gives me. Two days out of 365. Two days— like that’s enough to fill the cracks of all the empty nights he didn’t tuck me in, didn’t say, “I love you.” Was I unlovable? Is that why he left? Did he look at me, my messy hair, my small hands, and think, "Not worth it"? Does he know— how it feels to wonder if you’re the reason he walked away? Do all the kids without fathers— feel this too? This hollow ache, this question we carry, like it’s stitched to our skin: "Am I not enough?" Twice a year. That’s all I get. A smile, a pat on the back, maybe a forced “How’ve you been?” And I wonder, is it guilt that drives him here? Is it duty? Does he even remember the sound of my laughter? Or does it haunt him— like a song he’s trying to forget? But I remember. I remember every birthday missed, every promise broken, every empty chair at the dinner table. And I ask myself, "Did he care?" Did he ever care? Maybe fathers who leave aren’t running from us— but from themselves.