Dear Dad

by Yilin S., 14

In a wet swimsuit, flipflops, and a parka

I hurry out, five minutes late

To see the parking lot glazed in winter light,
The sky already deciding it’s night.
I see my sister inside your car,
dry hair, seatbelt clicked—
already ready to go.
I see the window down,
your arm out,
your finger aimed like a verdict.
I see the car pull away
before I’m invited inside it.

I hear my name sharpened into blame.
I hear the word late
land harder than the cold.
I hear the engine answer you
before I can.
I hear the tires leave me.
After that, I hear nothing—
no return,
no apology,
no voice saying get in.

I smell chlorine clinging to my skin,
pool water refusing to let go.
I smell winter
metal, frost, exhaust
air that bites like it has teeth.
I smell the long walk home
before I take it.

I taste salt at the back of my throat,
not from the pool—
from swallowing everything else.
I taste the words I don’t say:
I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to.
Please come back.

I feel wet hair freezing at my neck.
My parka becomes leaden,
like it knows.
I feel the sidewalk count my steps
all the way home.
I feel the thought repeat itself,
until it fits perfectly:
This is my fault.
I deserve this.

I was ten
It was winter.
You never apologized.
And I learned to carry the blame
instead.