I wipe my hands on a towel and open the front door.
Mom and Dad are standing on the porch in their winter coats.
Dad is holding a bottle of orange juice like he’s not sure what to do with his hands.
Mom has a tin of homemade cookies—her shortbread, the ones she used to make for every school event of Monica’s, and none of mine.
“Hi,” Mom says—nervous, hopeful.
“Come in,” I say. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
Dad steps inside and looks around the kitchen like he’s cataloging everything—the house he’s never been in, the life he almost never knew existed.
He clears his throat.
“Can I help with anything?”
I look at him—my father, 62 years old, standing in my kitchen for the first time, asking permission to be useful.
“You can set the table, Dad.”
He nods, goes to the cabinet I point to, takes out plates, counts them, and looks at me.
“Four.”
“Four,” I confirm.
He sets them down one by one—carefully, like they might break if he isn’t gentle.
Nathan hands him coffee.
Mom hugs me at the stove. Not a dramatic movie hug—just a quiet one. Arms around me, forehead against my shoulder.
No words.
Holding on.
Hippo thumps his tail.
Snow falls outside.
The French toast sizzles.
It’s not perfect. It’s not the childhood I deserved or the reconciliation movies promise.
But it’s real.
And real is more than I had for a very long time.
My name is Dr. Irene Ulette. I’m 32 years old, and I am finally—slowly, carefully—letting myself be someone’s daughter again.
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