The moment the door swung closed behind her, warmth spilled into the cool night. Golden light from chandeliers and lamps washed across the tiled foyer, contrasting with the street-lamps she had just left behind.
For a moment, Tandy hesitated on the decision to walk further inward, her sneakers scuffing the polished floor.
She expected silence, the way it usually was when her mother was out at events or managing the family business, and Phillip was tied up with various work calls.
But before she could even take another step deeper into the home, a voice rushed toward her.
"Tandy?"
Her Step-Father, Phillip, appeared from the hallway in a hurry, shoulders tense, his tie loosened and his hair mussed in a way she had never seen before.
His expression, usually patient, mild, almost understated compared to her mother's sharp presence, was pinched with lines of worry. His eyes searched her as if making sure she was really there, not some illusion conjured by fear.
"Tandy, thank God, " He didn't even finish the sentence. He crossed the foyer in three long strides, his hands landing firmly but gently on her shoulders.
"Where have you been? I've been calling all night and day, your phone goes straight to voicemail. I was this close to calling the police."
The intensity of his voice startled her more than she wanted to admit. She blinked up at him, suddenly acutely aware of the dirt streaking her sneakers, the faint smell of sweat still clinging to her even after the quick shower, and the wild disarray of her hair.
"I…" Her throat tightened, the words catching. She had expected Phillip to be calm, to scold her maybe, or worse, indifferent, especially after the way she had treated him in the past.
But now this, she didn't expect the raw relief she saw in Phillip's eyes when she saw him, not this trembling man who had been worried sick all day.
Her lips trembled before she could stop them, "I-I'm sorry," she whispered.
Phillip was a bit shocked when he heard it. Tandy hadn't realized how rare those words were on her tongue when it came to Phillip. She never apologized to him. Not really.
Not when she was late to dinner, not when she avoided him by slipping out to ballet practice, not when she shrugged off his gentle reminders about school.
She had always held him at arm's length, as if keeping score between the man who had left her and the man who had stayed.
But now, as the foyer seemed to press in on her with the weight of his concern, something cracked. Her arms moved before her thoughts caught up. She leaned forward, burying her face against his chest, her arms wrapping tight around him.
"I'm sorry," she said again, the words muffled against his shirt. Her shoulders shook as she held on tighter, tears pooling hot and blinding in her eyes. "I'm so, so sorry."
Phillip froze only a second before his arms came around her, enveloping her in the kind of embrace she hadn't realized she needed. His hand smoothed down her hair, tentative at first, then firmer, grounding.
"Tandy…" His voice was low, thick, "You don't have to apologize. I just needed to know you were safe. That's all that matters."
She shook her head, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze through blurred lashes. "No. It's more than that. I've… I've treated you like you don't matter. Like you're just… here. But you're not. You're, you've always been here. When my real dad wasn't. When Mom was too busy. You're the one who…"
Her breath hitched. She swallowed hard, forcing the words out even as her voice broke. "…You're the one who stayed. You're my dad. You always have been. I just...I never said it."
Phillip's eyes widened. For once, he was the one at a loss for words. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again, his expression a mixture of shock and something deeper—something fragile, as if he had wanted to hear those words for years but never dared expect them.
Her tears spilled faster, streaking down her cheeks as she clung to him again, pressing her face against his shoulder. "Dad," she whispered this time, letting the word tremble out of her like a confession. "I'm sorry it took me so long."
He drew in a shaky breath and held her tighter, his chin resting on her hair. For the first time since she was ten years old, since her world had fractured in two, she felt anchored, not by the hollow wealth of her house or the distant figure of her mother, but by this man who had never once given up on her, even when she gave him every reason to.
They stood in the foyer for what felt like forever. Her sobs slowed eventually, softening into quiet hiccups as she wiped her eyes against his shirt.
Phillip didn't let go, didn't press her for explanations. He just stood there, patient and steady, as if telling her in silence that he wasn't going anywhere.
When she finally pulled back, she caught sight of the worry still etched in his face. And in that moment, Tyrone's words replayed in her mind.
Family is family. Always cherish them.
Her stomach twisted. Tyrone didn't have this. Not anymore. All the things she had that Tyrone didn't have.
She had two parents alive. Two. Even if her mother was distant, Phillip was here, real, solid, arms strong around her. She had what Tyrone could never have again. And it hit her, hard and merciless: she had taken it for granted.
She bit her lip, drawing in a shaky breath. I can't waste this. I can't waste him. And I can't leave Tyrone to rot in the dark while I stand here, safe and warm.
Her hands clenched in Phillip's shirt. Quietly, fiercely, she promised herself: she would never forget this moment.
She would never again let Phillip's love go unacknowledged. And more than that, she would share it. She would carry it with her into the shadows where Tyrone lived, and she would help him find something like it again.
Because he deserved it. Because she had it, and he didn't. And she wasn't going to let him drown without a fight.
"Dad," she whispered again, softer now but certain. "I promise I won't disappear like that again."
Phillip's lips curved into a small, weary smile, his hand brushing the tears from her cheek. "That's all I ask, sweetheart."
***
Meanwhile, the trip back for Tyrone felt longer than usual as he moved like a ghost through the various streets and alleyways.
By the time he pushed open the door to his small apartment, the silence greeted him like it always did, thick, unbroken, unchanging.
The kind of silence that gnawed at you if you listened too long. He slipped off his shoes, dropped his hoodie on the couch, and padded toward the back room.
The air still carried the faintest smell of dust and old wood polish. Nothing had shifted since the last time he'd been here. He almost wished it had, as if some sign of life might greet him. But it never did.
His eyes landed on the shelf, picking up the cracked photo frame Tandy had held the earlier morning, its edges worn from years of picking up dust in this room. His fingers brushed the cool glass and pulled it close.
The picture was simple, just him, his dad, and his brother. Taken on a rare bright day when the world hadn't felt so heavy. His father's arm around both boys, grinning wide with pride. His brother's smile cocky, half-laughing, ready for anything. And Tyrone, younger, smaller, still carrying the kind of light in his eyes he hadn't seen in the mirror in years.
He sat down heavily on the edge of one of the room's chairs, the frame balanced in his hands. For a long moment, he just stared, jaw tight, trying to hold himself together.
But the longer he looked, the more memories he remembered, the harder it became to hold himself together. That hollow space inside, the one that training, anger, even violence couldn't fill, spread wider, sharper. His chest burned, his throat closing up.
"I'm sorry…" he whispered, voice breaking in the stillness. His thumb traced over their faces as if that could bring them back.
His shoulders hunched, and the tears finally slipped free, hot and unrelenting. He pressed the frame to his chest, curling around it, shaking as the sobs came, quiet but raw, spilling into the room that had been too empty for too long.
For the first time in years, Tyrone let himself cry.
And in that moment, alone in the dark, it wasn't the vengeful kid that would soon unleash his rage, or the kid who appeared like a light in Tandy's life.
It was just a boy, heartbroken by the tragedies of two lives, broken and grieving, clutching a picture of the family he'd lost, nothing but the sound of his tears echoing through the room.