Dad immigrated with nothing. Worked three jobs, broken English. I told people he was “too old to learn.”
At 18, I got a real job and disappeared. Dad never called. I thought: finally, he gets it.
But eight months later, I needed something from his place.
I opened the door and stopped cold.
The apartment was different. Cleaner. Quieter. On the small kitchen table sat a battered notebook, open and filled edge to edge with handwriting—his handwriting, careful and slow. Flashcards were spread out like puzzle pieces. English words on one side. Meanings on the other. Some crossed out. Some circled twice.
In the corner, an old laptop hummed. On the screen: a paused video titled “English for Work Interviews – Lesson 12.”
I walked closer and saw sticky notes taped everywhere.
“Call son.”
“Practice pronunciation.”
“Ask about his job.”
Then I noticed the calendar on the wall. Every day had a checkmark. Every Sunday had one extra note: “He might visit.”
My chest tightened.
He hadn’t stopped calling because he didn’t care.
He stopped because I had.
I used to say he was too old to learn.
Turns out, he was learning for me—while I was learning how easy it is to leave.
I picked up the notebook, sat at the table, and waited.
