When I was 17, my dad walked out like we were a TV show he got bored of.
He left me and my mom for a younger woman — someone who liked fancy vacations, shopping sprees, and, apparently, married men. Worse than that? He drained our savings and stopped paying the mortgage. We lost our home, our sense of safety, everything.
He never looked back.
I spent years picturing how I’d get my revenge. A courtroom showdown. A viral video of him getting served. Anything that would let me say: Look who’s ruined now.
Turns out, karma beat me to it.
Years passed. I moved on — or at least, I tried. I worked hard, helped Mom rebuild, and did everything I could to forget him.
Until one random Thursday morning, on my way to work, I saw him.
At first, I didn’t recognize him. He was standing outside the deli near my office — hair unkempt, suit wrinkled, face worn and hollowed by time and guilt. He was handing out food vouchers with a plastic “Volunteer” badge around his neck.
I stopped in my tracks.
Ellery Quinn. My father. Once obsessed with power and polish — now quietly offering granola bars to strangers on the sidewalk.
I walked right past him. My coffee spilled down my wrist, but I didn’t feel a thing. I was too numb. Angry. Confused.
