by Katie Dozier
“ Bonsoir , Ella. I do not like to disturb you, but I thought I heard my name. May I get you or your guest more tea?”
“No merci ,” I said with a smile.
I turned back to facing the interviewer.
“And next month, I’m opening another free live-in eating disorder recovery program in Florida, which will be open to both girls and guys.”
“That’s great. I think that will be all for now. I just have to say I wish you the best with your recovery, and with your upcoming first album.”
“Thank you!” I said.
As I let him out, I saw a thin figure through the window. He was pacing between the door and then away from the house in a loop that looked like the infinity symbol.
I swung the door open.
The man in front of me was fragile and pale and he wasn’t from Rolling Stone .
He held a tiny bouquet of violets in his hands—which he held like a lost flower girl.
“Dad?”
“I…I just got out. I’m sorry, I wanted to see you sooner,” he said.
I felt the feathers in my throat threaten to silence me again, and my feet began to step backwards into the safety of home.
I remembered my eighteenth birthday and how Dad had made me Mom’s spaghetti while fighting tears.
I remembered how he pushed me to try to feel alive again, even when he felt dead himself.
“I’m so sorry,” he said.
I thought of Mom.
And I realized that Dad was here at this mansion, full of hope—just as I had been only months ago.
I hugged him and said, “Come on in. We have the second best spaghetti in the world.”
