Front Row Drama
Two Hundred Eleven Games

The Meeting

August 25, 2026 · Part 6 of 10 · 1 min

I met my biological father once, at a diner two towns over, chosen carefully, I suspect, so nobody who knew either of our families would see us there.

He was pleasant enough. He asked reasonable questions. He told a story about wanting to reach out sooner that had the specific hollow quality of something rehearsed in a car on the way over.

What I remember most clearly, sitting across from a man who shared exactly half my DNA and none of my actual life, was how little I felt, how carefully I had to work to feel anything at all, compared to the reflexive, unthinking flood of feeling I got every single time I saw Hollis's truck pull into a parking lot.

"I'd like to stay in touch," my biological father said, at the end, sliding a business card across the table.

"Sure," I told him, and meant it about as much as the word usually means in conversations like that one.

I called Hollis from the parking lot before I even started my car. "How'd it go," he asked, and I told him, honestly, fine, and also that I was ready to come home, and he said, without a beat of hesitation, "I'll leave the porch light on."

Continue the story Part 7: What the Town Said →

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