The doorbell echoes on the other side of his front door. The front light isn’t even on. He’s probably not home. He’s probably out with clients. Maybe he has a girlfriend we don’t know about. I wonder if I can get her a message. She needs an escape plan.

I’m halfway down his icy front steps when the door opens. My father stands in the doorway, a glass of something amber in his hand, the house dark except for the glow of a television coming from a room down the hall. His tie hangs loose from his neck; his pants look floppy in his stocking feet.

“Amy?” I haven’t heard him say my name like that in a long time, maybe ever. Without frustration in his tone, anger, boredom. His voice is softer, lighter. I could almost convince myself he’s happy I’m here. That he wants to see me.

“Hi, Dad.”

He blinks like he can’t believe his eyes. “Do you want to come in?” he asks, stepping aside. He sounds tired. He looks it.

Do I want that?

“When I decided to come here, I was going to yell at you,” I say.

His jaw tightens. It’s almost imperceptible but it’s loud as a scream to me. The first sign that I have acted in a way that displeases him. The clock has begun its countdown to when I will be told why I am what’s wrong with this family, with our relationship.

“So, I guess I’d better get this out quick.” I stomp my feet in the cold because I don’t think I’m going to get invited in now. “I could never figure out what exactly it was that I did. Is it because I’m gay, Dad? Is it that cliché? Because I don’t think it is. Or maybe I just don’t want to believe it. Could you tell I was gay before even I knew?”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, voice flat. He takes a sip of his drink, the ice clinking against the glass.

“You don’t love me, Dad. At least, not the same way that other fathers love their kids. I’ve always been too loudmouthed, too argumentative, too quick to anger. I’ve never been able to stay...” I hold up my hand, thumb down. “Under your thumb. Not the same way you could keep Wes or Mom there.”

He scoffs. “Stop with the dramatics, please. Of course I love you. You and your brother.”

I nod. My ears are so cold and I don’t know where my hat is. “You love us, in your own way. The best you could, I guess. I was going to yell at you, but yelling is too much energy. And I’ve wasted so much energy on you, Dad. You don’t deserve it. Not my energy. Not Wes’s. You didn’t deserve Mom’s.” I laugh. Not because any of this is funny. More of an if-I-can’t-laugh-I’ll-cry situation.

“Mom wasted her life on you. Her fucking life. You get that, right? Waiting for you to love her enough? To be good enough for you? And here you are, living a life after Mom. But where is she? She doesn’t get the chance to live a life after you, after the wreckage you left. A life where she realizes she was better than you this whole time. If I were to yell, it would be about that. That she doesn’t get the chance to come out of the other side of your pitiful version of love.”