Zoey Gallagher

He tells me he’s on his way to his dad’s and he’s afraid. He’s afraid to park outside. Afraid to get out of the car. Afraid he won’t be able to. Afraid of what will happen when he does— how it’ll feel to walk upstairs and walk inside. He’s afraid of what it will be like, what it will feel like. Afraid it’ll feel different. Afraid it’ll all feel real.

I call my dad, but he doesn’t answer. There’s a little boy on the other end, and he sounds afraid.

And he is. He tells me he’s afraid of going home and being alone. Afraid that when he makes it upstairs, knocks on the front door, listens for footsteps, a shuffle, or maybe even just the house settling— any sound as evidence of a weight barring life— that he won’t hear it.

So instead he’ll peer through the glass pane on the front door. Squint, rub his eyes, and look some more. He’ll open the screen, lean his head against the door, and just listen.

He’ll knock again, pretend he’s there to deliver very unimportant and outdated news, or a package that landed on the wrong doorstep. Maybe he’s there to provide unsolicited neighborly advice, talk briefly about the weather, or borrow another egg for the recipe he was confident only required one, but was terribly mistaken. Anything that gives him a different reason for being there, standing outside his father’s front door, afraid.

On the other side, his dad is home. He’s sitting in the living room, legs crossed, chapters deep in a riveting James Patterson novel. The sliding door to the back porch is open. The TV is on. There’s a golf tournament in Miami— someone misses their shot for par, the ball rolls just to the right of the green.

He doesn’t hear the knocking. He doesn’t hear the screen door open, or the floorboards creak under his son’s weight. He doesn’t know that he parked and hesitated. That he held his breath and closed his eyes and pretended to be someone else or somewhere else or anything else. He doesn’t know that his son is afraid. Afraid to park outside, walk upstairs, knock on the door, wait for an answer— knowing there won’t be one— unlock the screen door, shuffle down the hallway, raise a family, file taxes, contribute to society, smile at strangers, in reflections, and at dogs, talk to walls, sit on benches, fill his lungs, and deeply breath: in and out, and in and out, and in and out.