When I was 13, my dad disappeared. No warnings, no arguments, no letters—just… gone. One morning, he left for work and never came back. My mom and I were devastated. For months, we waited, hoping he’d call or walk through the door. But that day never came.
Eventually, we had to move on. Mom worked two jobs, and I threw myself into school and friends, trying to fill the space he’d left behind. Over time, the pain dulled, but it never truly disappeared. I told myself I didn’t care anymore—that he was just a chapter I’d closed. I built a life without him. I even stopped asking why.
Ten years passed.
One rainy afternoon, I was driving home from work when I noticed a man and a young girl standing on the side of the road. They looked soaked, holding hands as they tried to wave down cars. I don’t usually stop for strangers—but something about them made me slow down.
Then I saw his face.
My heart skipped. Even after all those years, I knew. The man with the tired eyes and graying hair was my father.
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