Oh, for the days when I ran everywhere I went.

Mateo’s mother pats him on the back as he races past and waves at me before she closes the door.

“¡Hola, Papa!” I say as I push open the door to the house where I grew up. My key gets stuck as usual, but after a few tries I get it loose. I close the door and then click the lock back in place.

“Roberto!” My father steps out of the kitchen. He pulls me into a big hug. I breathe in the smell of his aftershave and home.

“¿Cómo estás?” He steps back, hands still on my shoulders, and examines my face. “¿Te han dado de comer en la universidad? Te veo muy flaco! Do you need food? Something to drink?”

I laugh and shrug him off. “Sí, I’ve been eating.” I step into the kitchen. “I’ll take something to drink though.” I grab a Jarritos Lime from the refrigerator. It’s been my favorite flavor since I was five, and he always buys it. As the door closes, the photograph of my mother, smiling as she holds me just days after I was born, swings up before settling back into its spot. I feel a pang in my heart. My dad has had this picture up for years, but the effect on me never really goes away.

Next to it, my Warren acceptance letter is tacked on with a magnet.

I remember the day he put it there. The whole block came over to party when I got in. A few kids who used to call me a nerd and throw things at me from the back of the classroom even timidly offered a That’s really cool, man.

I sit down at the light wood table. Across from me, where my father must have been sitting, a newspaper is open to the crossword, half-done. A pencil lies across the top, and along the margins, the Spanish translations of words are written in my father’s clean, plain handwriting.

He sits down and pushes the paper to the side. “How was your first week at school?”

I start into stories about dorms and classes, and he asks if I’ve met any nice girls.

I know it isn’t exactly a typical college move, to come home the first weekend. But I also know my father is lonely. My mother has been gone almost ten years now.

About three months from the ten-year mark, actually. A fact we’ve been keeping quite a close eye on.

It all started when I was seven, so young I barely understood what was going on. One day my mom went to work and didn’t come home. It wasn’t until a few hours after she was supposed to be home, and my dad was pacing a hole in the kitchen floor, that we got the call.