It wasn’t always like this. Our relationship during my childhood was warm, loving. He would forge me letters from Harry Potter and leave them under a snowy-white owl. For more than a year, I faithfully wrote Harry once a week. Without fail, “Harry” responded, in a messy block-letter script. I was devastated when I found out I had been corresponding with Dad all along—but I treasure those letters now.

He started distancing himself right after Mom left. At first, I thought he was just depressed. Like me. Like my brother. But six years later, he still talks to me only when necessary.

In contrast, he’s fully and completely focused on my brother. Archie’s grades and Archie’s future. Archie’s moods and Archie’s desires. It’s like he’s forgotten that he also has a daughter.

“Tell your brother to get a move on. And ask him if Zeke still needs a ride.” Dad hooks a finger in his own necktie and adjusts the already perfect knot.

That should end our conversation. I’m lucky he even gave me two sentences. But I can’t make myself move away.

Maybe it’s because I’m still rattled by my conversation with the Voice. Or the fact that someday, soon, I’ll have to take an irrevocable action. Or maybe, just maybe, six years is too long for anyone to receive the cold shoulder.

“Why don’t you talk to me anymore?” I blurt.

Dad’s fingers freeze on the tie. “We’re talking now.”

“Not really. You can’t look at me. Every word comes out like it hurts.” I lick my lips. “Did I do something to make you mad? To make you…not love me anymore?” I mumble the last words, half hoping he doesn’t hear them.

“What? No, honey. No.” He massages his temples. “This has nothing to do with you. Of course I love you. I always have.”

Funny way he has of showing it.

“Your mother—” He stops, shaking his head. “I’ve been doing this all wrong, haven’t I? Okay, Alice. What should we talk about?”

Anticipation flutters in my chest. It’s probably unwise to wish after so many years. Definitely naive to yearn for the way things were. But I can’t help but hope that he might actually be back, if only for a moment. The dad who loved me.

“Anything, really,” I say. “Are you excited about tonight?”

“Yes, for sure,” he says. “I’m hoping to run into someone at the banquet.”

Me too.