It felt like an oven inside that transport van, and my nerves only made it worse. My leg bounced nonstop, and my fists were clenched tight in my lap like I was bracing for a crash. I’d just wrapped up yet another job interview—the kind that ends with a polite “we’ll be in touch,” which usually means don’t hold your breath. I was expecting nothing more from the day than a long ride back to the volunteer staging area.
But then, everything changed.
The van door slid open, and a sudden shift came over the group. People stirred, making space like something—or someone—important was coming through. I heard someone call my name. Softly at first, like they weren’t sure I’d hear or didn’t want to scare me.
And then I saw him.
At first, I didn’t recognize him. His hair was thinner, his body smaller, more fragile than the man I remembered. But the moment he knelt in front of me and grabbed my hands like he was terrified I might disappear, I knew.
It was my dad.
Two years ago, he vanished. Just like that—gone. No phone calls, no notes. Nothing. We thought the worst. The police figured he left on purpose. My mom stopped hoping. But I didn’t. I never gave up. I kept checking shelters, combing through missing person pages, leaving notes in both English and Spanish at every highway rest stop along the border.
And now, here he was—on one knee, staring up at me like he couldn’t believe I was real either. My heart was thudding so hard I thought it might drown out my thoughts. I fought to stay calm, to not break down right there in front of him.
“Dad?” I finally managed to say, my voice catching on the word. I hadn’t spoken it aloud in so long. He looked older, worn down by time and whatever life had thrown at him, but his eyes were the same. The same ones I’d missed more than I could admit.
He gave a slow nod, like he didn’t want to interrupt the moment or maybe didn’t trust himself to speak first. I just kept staring, trying to make it make sense.
“Why?” I asked. “Where did you go? Why didn’t you come back?” My words came out fast and raw, full of questions I’d held in for far too long. Beneath the hurt was a deep, aching relief—he was alive. That was all that mattered right then.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he said, voice rough and low. “I thought leaving was the best thing… that you’d be better off. But I was wrong. I couldn’t stay away anymore.”
Tears stung my eyes, but I blinked them back, not ready to let emotion take over. “Better off? You just vanished. No goodbye. No reason. Mom thought you were dead. I thought you were dead.” My voice rose with each word, shaking from the weight of two years of wondering, of not knowing.
He winced at the mention of Mom, and I saw the pain flicker across his face. I didn’t even know if he had any idea what had happened in his absence—how we survived, how many nights I stared at the door, hoping he’d walk back through it.