I walk east into the forest away from my house. The leaves crunch under my feet as I head toward my treehouse. My dad and I built the treehouse when I was 6, almost 11 years ago. A few years after one of the best moments of my life came the worst.
My parents seemed to never fight, so when my mom explained they were splitting up it caught me by surprise. My mom never was able to give me a straight reason, but I learned it was mostly due to my dad wanting to experience more in life. It hurt my mom and I to hear that we weren’t enough for him. He left before I could even say goodbye, telling my mom it would be better that way. The weirdest part of the whole situation? I have still to this day never felt anything but love for my dad. Even after he ditched us I never had any ill feelings towards him. Most kids, by the time they got to my age, would realize how crappy of a thing it is for someone to leave their wife and six year old kid. I often thought about trying to find him, but didn’t know where to begin or if it would end well.
When I get to the treehouse I pull down the ladder and climb up through the hatch in the floor. The treehouse is a faded red, worn down by years of rain, snow and sun. In the corner of the room sits a bean bag chair next to a small coffee table. Two bookcases stand on opposite sides of the room, a tapestry on the ceiling and 3 folded up chairs leaning against the bookcase complete the furnishing in my second home. I usually only come to the treehouse after a long day or when I just needed to get away. I sit down in the bean bag chair and begin to read “Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince” for about the 30th time. I read for about a hour before I decide to head home. As I place the book back on the shelf I notice a yellow wrapper in the trash bin next to the bookcase. I pull it out and read Butterfinger written in blue font. I look over my shoulder, feeling like I’m being watched. I haven’t been up here in almost 2 months, and I almost never bring food. I tell myself that I must have brought up the candy, but in the back of my mind I know I didn’t. I drop the ladder down and quickly drop to the ground. I throw it back onto it’s hook and jog towards my house. I get home to a note from my mom saying she has to work late and won’t be home till past midnight. I eat dinner, shower and go to bed. I hear the garage gears cranking the door open as I start to doze off.
I wake up to a text from my Mom telling me she is going to Chicago for the day for a work conference. I make breakfast and around noon decide to head to the treehouse for a while. It’s the first week of summer and I haven’t had much to do during the day. I go out my backdoor and make the 100 yard walk, thinking the whole way about the Butterfinger wrapper. I get about 10 yards away from the treehouse and notice the ladder is already down. I instantly feel goosebumps all over my body. I live in a pretty populated area, a middle and elementary school about three blocks away from my house. I tell myself I should go up, and that the ladder may have just fallen down. Though the idea that someone else is in my treehouse is giving me chills. I throw the ladder up onto the hook then just stand and look around. Taking in everything around me. A gust of wind comes through the forest rustling the trees. The ladder doesn’t even budge. I back up and start to head for home, keeping my eyes on the treehouse the whole time. I am about 20 yards away when I see the trap door swing open. Then a raspy but familiar voice murmurs, “Davis? Is that you.” The words are spoken soft, but the forest trees are tall and they bounce around, creating a echo. I freeze, not sure what to do. A hand reaches down and tosses the ladder to the floor. I start to back up, but trip over a root growing out the ground. A slim, brown haired figure emerges from the treehouse, scaling the ladder with their back turned to me. I think about running, but a voice in the back of my mind keeps me still. They drop down and as soon as they hit the ground they turn, facing me, keeping their head down. I can see it’s a man now, maybe in his late Fourties. He’s wearing a black raincoat over a green Milwaukee Bucks sweatshirt, torn cargo pants, and adidas running shoes. I stare at the shoes and take a step forward. The man looks up and I let out a gasp. My dad and I stare at each other for what feels like hours. My mind is racing, but one word forces it’s way through all the thoughts, “Why?” I say. It comes out as more of a whisper, as I take another step forward. My dad just stares, moving his eyes up and down. “Look at you,” he says. We talk for awhile, catch up on how things are going for both of us. The conversation stalls and I think about asking him why he left. I decide to wait till we’re back at my house, and we start walking that way. I start to wonder what my mom will think of him just popping back into our life, but I decide no matter what it is it will be worth my dad being back. For good.