“Nope. Still fruitfully employed. I’m here because I want to make sure you’re not letting everything that’s happened the last few days get in the way of finishing your college applications.”

Right. College, my future achievements, everything that will quell the guilt of their absent parenting. Of course that’s what he’d be here to discuss.

“You mean my ex-friend being in the hospital and finding out that I will never get a prom or a high school graduation? Nope. I’m not distracted at all. It’s motivation as far as I’m concerned.”

“Then how come you’re not working on it right now?”

“I needed a break. But it’s going really well. I’d say it’s the best thing I’ve ever written.” It’s scary sometimes how easy it is for me to lie.

“And your mental health? All good there?”

In the last eighteen years, my dad has never, not once, asked me about my mental state. He probably read a headline in the New York Times that said the pandemic has been depressing for teenagers.

“My mental health is fine. Ice cream helps.”

He nods, then lets out a sigh. “It’s about the only thing that makes me feel less depressed these days, but I don’t want to emerge from quarantine with a dad bod.”

I’ll admit, it’s nice that we’re actually conversing. But I’m not sure I want to know that my parents experience regular human emotions. The only thing that helps me believe that everything will be okay is if they believe that, too.

“What exactly are you depressed about?” I ask him anyway. It seems like the right thing to do.

“Everything that’s happening. Life. Death. Poverty. I miss my buddies. I miss my office. I miss restaurants and movie theaters and hugs. I really miss hugs. You and your sister used to hug me all the time when you were little. If we had to go through a pandemic, I wish it happened back when you guys were still capable of affection.”

Now would probably be an appropriate time to put my arm around him or squeeze his shoulder, and I’m not sure why, but I don’t. I resent that our quality time always comes at his convenience.

“I should probably get back to my essay,” I reply.

“Okay, sweetie. Good talk.”

“Yup. Good talk.”

He leaves the room, and I feel a twinge of guilt that I ended a conversation that could have led to a heart-to-heart. But chances are my dad’s phone would have pinged anyway, and he’d have to leave to put out a work fire. Even in a pandemic, we don’t always have our priorities in order… and sometimes, well, it just feels better to be the one who does the rejecting.

GABRIELA