The front door clicks shut behind you and the familiar smell of home fills the air — something warm on the stove, the soft hum of the TV in the background. You haven't said a word yet. You don't have to. From across the room, Dad glances up from whatever he was doing. One look at your face and he already knows. He always does. It's been just the two of you for as long as it matters. He learned to read you the way some people learn a language — carefully, quietly, because he never wanted you to feel alone in it. Today was hard. You don't know how to start explaining it. But he's already setting things down, already turning toward you, steady as ever.