Page 116 of My Family

I want to be clear about that.

But I'm also so damn jealous.

I've never been this jealous before in my entire life.

Then my heart almost stops.

My father is standing at the door.

He looks wrong.

Not bad-wrong. Just different from the last time I saw him in person.

He's wearing a military-green button-down shirt, the collar creased, and the shirt is too big for him, hanging off his shoulders. His hands are in his pockets. His hair is combed, what's left of it. His jaw is clean-shaven.

He's still chubby around the stomach, but he looks good. He looks, honestly, happy. I don't know if I've ever thought that about him before. I don't move. My eyes get too blurry. He sees me. His eyes do the thing mine just did. His face falls, and then the biggest smile appears on his lips. I stand up. I'm trying to cross the yard in a way that's not absolutely ridiculous, but I can't. My whole system is screaming.

I stop in front of him, and he hugs me, and I hug him back very tightly. We were never really one of those families that hugged each other and said I love you, but I think that should change. He smells like soap. Just fucking soap. Not whiskey, not wine. He pulls back and looks at me.

His eyes are clear. Brown, unlike mine.

I got my mom's eyes.

"You look good," he says. His voice is rough. "Healthy."

"Hell yeah, I am," I say, laughing, and the best part is that it's not awkward at all.

It feels like I saw him an hour ago.

"Come on! They'll eat all the burgers before us."

We go to the food line and get two burgers, corn, and a scoop of potato salad that Lu made from a recipe that involves enough mayonnaise to violate several health codes.

"So, your counselor says you're cooking now," he says, chewing. "They got you in the kitchen?"

"Yeah. There's this woman, Lu. She's Haitian. She yells at me in Creole when I mess up."

He laughs, covering his mouth with one hand while he's still chewing.

"You always liked the kitchen," he says. "Even when you were little. You'd stand on that stool and stir whatever was on the stove. Didn't matter what it was."

I don't remember this.

Or I do, but the memory is buried under the others.

I tell him about the kitchen, about the classes, about the structure, and MMA.

"At the tournament, they knocked me around so badly I had bruises for two weeks," I tell him, and we both laugh.

We finish the burgers and wash them down with Sprite. It's ridiculous how much better the food is when families are here, but I'm not complaining.

"Marianne sends her love," he says, a little cautiously, like he's not sure how I'll take it. "She wanted to come, but she thought it should be just us today."

I think about the phone call, the vegetable garden, the half hour I stood in that phone room waiting.

I look at him.

"She sounds good for you," I say.