He looked up, older and wearier than I remembered, eyes soft with something like forgiveness.
I ran to him, tears blurring my vision. When I reached him, I threw my arms around his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of leather, gasoline, and home.
He held me tightly, his calloused hands trembling as he stroked my hair. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I just wanted to see you graduate. That’s all I ever wanted.”
I looked into his eyes—tired, kind, unbroken—and all the bitterness I’d carried dissolved.
“You did more than that,” I said softly. “You gave me everything.”
He glanced down at the key in my hand. “That’s yours,” he said. “A place to start over. You deserve that.”
Tears streamed down my face as I nodded. My father—my hero—had given me more than a future. He’d given me the truth.
As the sun dipped low behind the campus, I realized that for the first time, I wasn’t running from my past. I was walking beside it. Beside him.
He wasn’t just my dad.
He was my hero.
And, finally, I was coming home.
