I always thought the quiet would feel easier after Mia left—no more arguments or slammed doors—but the silence was overwhelming. The last fight echoed in my mind: Mia, telling me she didn’t need my approval to date.
“I’m not letting you meet my boyfriend, Dad,” she said coldly. “I’m 18, and I’m done letting you control me.”
Angry, I told her to leave if she was going to act like an adult. She did, and the door slammed shut, leaving me shattered. I couldn’t understand why she was so ungrateful after all I’d done for her.
Weeks later, I passed a café and heard her laughter. I froze when I saw her with Joshua, my best friend of 20 years. My heart raced with anger. Joshua, a married man, was sitting too close to her.
I stormed in. “Mia, are you pregnant? What about him? Is he the guy I told you not to meet?”
“Dad, please,” Mia begged. “It’s not what you think.”
Joshua stood defensively, but my anger only grew. I blamed him for betraying me, and in the chaos, he stumbled and hit his head. The café fell silent as Mia called for help. Later, in the hospital, Mia explained that the baby wasn’t Joshua’s; it was from a relationship with a guy named Dylan who had left her. Joshua had supported her when I had pulled away.
“I’m sorry, Mia,” I said.
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