I hadn’t seen him in ten years, and yet he looked exactly the same. He sounded the same: the khaki pants, the white wrinkled shirt. He even wore the same jacket. And worse, he looked at me the same way. Like nothing happened.

He leaned against the hood of the car, overnight bag in one hand. I had just gotten off the airport. My clothes smell like I the three cigarettes I swore off of from last year. Cindy couldn’t pick me up from the airport, so she sent me her backup. I approached the car, hoping I wasn’t too obvious in patting the smell of smoke from my jacket.

It didn’t matter. He could tell anyway. I saw him crinkle his nose, sniffing. “I see you haven’t quit smoking,” and he shrugged. As if it didn’t matter either way.

But of course it did. It was the reason why both of us were here, now, ten years after.

One sentence, and I felt like I was twelve again, coming home dejected and miserable.

“Hi yourself, Dad.”

He made a motion to grab my bag, and I shook it off. “Are you driving?”