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I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “Everything. It made me feel everything.”

He waits. I know he wants me to elaborate.

Why is it so hard to put words to the storm raging in my chest? “The first time I met him, I was so angry. I … I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to feel the same pain I felt. But I also wanted to know him. I wanted to find out why he never came for me.”

“You said, ‘the first time you met him you were angry.’ You’re not angry anymore?”

“I don’t know what I am. I’m splintered into a hundred pieces, and each tiny piece feels and wants something different.”

“Okay, I can see how meeting your father for the first time as an adult can be confusing and conflicting. Let’s name some of those pieces now. We can tackle them together.”

I already feel like someone put me through a meat grinder. I want to say hell to the no, but I don’t. “Okay.” I put as much enthusiasm in my reply as I can, but I’m not fooling anyone.

“It’s not a root canal without anesthesia. It’s just talking. Let’s do this out of order. You said you met your father three times. Tell me about the second time you met him.”

I almost wish for the root canal instead. “We met for lunch a few weeks ago.”

“What did you talk about?”

“He showed me pictures of his parents and grandparents. Told me about his life, said he wants to get to know me better. To have a real father-daughter relationship.”

“And—”

“I know. How did that make me feel? I don’t know. I want that father-daughter relationship more than anything else. But a part of me is so angry still. It wants to tell him to fuck off. I think it will be angry forever.”

“Hmm.”

Hmm? What does that mean?

“Do you communicate with your father often in between those meetings?”

“He sent several texts in between. I didn’t answer most of them.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wanted him to feel like I felt my entire life.”

“And what was that? How did you feel your entire life?”

“Abandoned and waiting for something that would never come.”

“But now, it is here. The something you were waiting for—your father is here. And it challenges the truth you’ve been holding on to all these years. That he would never come. You don’t have that to hold on to anymore. It’s no longer true.”

He’s right. I have been holding on to my anger for so long it has become a lifesaver in a rough sea. But now that lifesaver has been pulled from me, and I’m adrift with nothing to hold to but the lies I tell myself. Knowing this doesn’t make it any easier.

“I know you’re right. I can rationalize it, but I’m still trying to hold on. Why is it so hard to let go?”

“Because it has become a habit. Because you don’t trust that it’s real. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to disappear again.”

“I am.” He’s right again. I’m afraid to hope. And what does that “hmm” mean?

“But what if he stays? What if your father becomes a real father to you?”

I ignore the question. “What did you mean by ‘hmm’ before?”

“Ah, that. I was pondering at your choice of words.”

What did I say? “What choice of words?”