He did not ask what came next.
He did not ask what I was permitted to say.
He did not ask whether leaving one path might mean entering another.
He slammed his palm down and said I had humiliated him.
My mother stood near the kitchen doorway, twisting a dish towel between her hands.
Daniel listened from the hallway.
By the next family dinner, the story had hardened.
I had quit.
By the next Christmas, I had failed.
By the following summer, people who barely knew me were offering gentle advice about finding direction.
The real explanation disappeared behind the explanation my father preferred.
Standing in the auditorium twelve years later, I could see that same certainty in Daniel’s face.
One of his teammates looked toward me briefly.
There was no mockery in his expression.
There was only discomfort, and perhaps the beginning of a question.
My father moved between us before that question could become visible.
