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I left work at 7 p.m., an hour later than my usual time. Truth be told, I didn’t want to see my father; I simply couldn’t bring myself to walk by him tonight. Seeing my father reminded me that despite my desperate attempt to be normal, I was not. I carried with me baggage, lots of it. But then, I sometimes wondered how much baggage those around me carried. If I took a moment to stop and stare at the people walking past me, if I gawked long enough, would I see their truth? Would I see the pain hidden behind their smiles? I took slight comfort in knowing that maybe, maybe, I wasn’t alone. Part of me wanted to call a meeting right then and there on the sidewalk, at the top of the Metro’s escalators, among the folks screaming that the apocalypse was near and that we all needed to repent or die a slow and agonizing death, among the old ladies selling rose bouquets, among the musicians who were hoping to earn a few more dollars before the last of the commuters disappeared down the escalators.

I wanted to holler, “All right, listen up everyone let’s stop pretending! Let’s get it all out so we can be free and start healing!”

Yes, I spent a lot of time thinking about all the things I wanted to do, but never did. Like go on dates. I had been asked out to lunch by a gorgeous guy who was a writer, well, at least he was aspiring to be one, and I had flat-out turned him down all because I didn’t think I deserved even a single moment of happiness.

I’d drown my sorrows with a bottle of wine tonight. I needed the fogginess that wine would bring.

Down the escalators I went.

Ten minutes later, I resurfaced.

As I hiked the three blocks to my apartment building, I couldn’t help noticing a young couple walking in my direction. The girl, not much younger than me, was clinging to her boyfriend—I assumed he was her boyfriend. She whispered something in his ear and he immediately started laughing. He then kissed her on the cheek and pulled her closer.

Clearly, they were really into each other. At twenty-three, I had never been in love with anyone.

When I made it to my building, I opened the door and darted to the staircase. I usually took the stairs. Our apartment was on the third floor of a six-story, fifty-year-old building, and since I wasn’t dedicated enough to maintain a consistent exercise routine, taking the stairs made me feel less guilty about my lack of commitment.

I crossed my fingers that my roommates had decided to go out for dinner. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with their chirpy, happy selves.

First, there was Grace. Graduated with a political science degree from George Washington University, worked on Capitol Hill for a senator whose name I always forgot. She was always smiling and always happy and recently underwent cosmetic surgery, got a boob job. No one is supposed to know that. Her downfall: she was always looking for love. She fell in love with every man she met, but so far not a single one had reciprocated.

Then there was Lisa, my other roommate. She was also always smiling and happy. Hip-length black hair, skinny and tall, she graduated from the University of Maryland with an English degree. She was a junior account manager at a Public Affairs firm on K Street. She also loved to cook and was pretty good at it.

Once I was standing in front of our apartment door, I took a deep breath, put my key in the key hole, and turned the knob. Please, oh, please, don’t be home.

No such luck. The second I entered the apartment, the aroma of Lisa’s home-made chili greeted me.

She came around the corner. “Oh, great, you’re home,” she said, a big smile on her face, a wooden spoon in her hand.

I set my purse down on the floor. “I’m going to go lie down for a bit.”

She took my hand. “You’re going to do no such thing.”

I reluctantly followed her to our small dining space.

Our wobbly table was set for two. I was happy to see that she had already filled my wine glass.

Sighing, I took a seat. “I take it Grace isn’t home...so I’m it?”

Lisa widened her smile, which made her look even younger than she was. When I first met her a few weeks ago after answering a roommate wanted ad on Craigslist, I thought she was all of seventeen or eighteen. She’s a year older than me, but you’d never know it.

Gathering her hair and then letting it fall on her shoulders, she said, “Yep, pretty much. You know I hate eating alone. It makes me feel like I’m a hundred or something.”

I slouched down in my chair. “You’re lucky I’m starving, otherwise...”

“Yes, yes, I know, you’d drift off to your room to do whatever it is you do in there.” She lifted her wine glass and took a sip.

I hadn’t told anyone about my father. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I didn’t know how my roommates would react. Would they think I was evil for not helping him? No matter how they reacted, they would know something about me I didn’t want anyone to know. I wished I didn’t know, if I could go back to the day I turned around and offered him my bottle of water...no, I would have done it again.

On my first day at the All Write Literary Agency, I had walked past my father, didn’t pay much attention to him. He was just another homeless person in DC. We had our share of them. It was July and it was supposed to be a really hot day. We were all supposed to limit our time outdoors and, of course, drink plenty of water. I had brought with me a bottle of water. Funny, but I’m almost convinced Mami’s spirit made me do it.

It was the first day of a new life for me. I had finally landed a new job, one with growth potential, the human resources person had said when she had called at exactly four in the afternoon on a Friday, to tell me that the boss, a pudgy man with black curly hair had made a decision and I was it. I was the person he had selected to be his new assistant. A nine-to-five job, scheduling meetings, answering phones, and filing. I was thrilled.

I turned around and went back to the homeless man. He was lying on a blanket, under the train tracks, his face toward the concrete wall. I couldn’t tell if he was asleep.

I took the bottle from my purse and set it down on the pavement next to him, the back of his head facing me. I paused to smile at my own good deed. Despite her many, many flaws, Mami had been a true believer in showing kindness to those less fortunate.

Just then, the homeless man turned his head and looked at me. I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t see; I couldn’t move. My chest hurt, my throat closed, I wanted to cry, no, I wanted to weep.

Here was this homeless man staring right at me. Here was this man who I knew...who had once told me he would never leave me...who had once held me in his arms and read me stories. Here was this man who abandoned me when I was twelve, who I hadn’t seen since I was sixteen years old. Here was this man whose eyes, I was sure, didn’t recognize me. Here was this man whose face had scars that weren’t there the last time I saw him. Here was my father. Oh, Papi, what happened to you?

I didn’t say a word to him. He didn’t say a word to me. Before I could collapse, I took off running.

I knew two things that day. One, he needed me. Two, I needed him.

After that encounter, my life went something like this. I passed my father every day on my way to and from work. He lived on the sidewalk under the train tracks. Sometimes, he was asleep, a stained blanket on his thin and frail body. Sometimes, he was awake and sitting against a concrete wall, his folded blanket at his side, glazed eyes staring at nothingness. Sometimes, I chose to walk on the other side of the street because I just couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t stand seeing him. And sometimes, when he wasn’t there, I felt my heart sink, wondering if he was okay, if he was hurt, if he had left me again, this time forever. Those were the worst days. I’d spend all day worried about him, feeling guilty, unable to close my mind to the dark thoughts that screamed I was a horrible, horrible person. I should have held his hand and told him who I was and that all would be well. But, I wasn’t ready.

On the days when he was asleep, I’d place a bag filled with food—fruit, nuts, bread, and peanut butter on the sidewalk next to him. A few times I even left him money, anything I could spare.

My father was homeless. And I had not yet figured out how to talk to him. I had not quite figured out my life at all. I walked among the living in DC, an imposter in a zombie’s body. Sipping coffee, getting dressed every day, smiling at my coworkers, saying yes, will do to my boss, buying plantains and yucca from the local bodega, paying bills, ordering takeout and hiding underneath my covers at night, fighting demons fixated on drowning my soul.

Despite my father abandoning me, I still loved him. I envied Lisa and Grace. They had parents who loved them, who were part of their lives, who wanted to know what they were up to, who they were dating, and whether or not they were happy. Me, I had a dead mother who, when I was a kid, would wake me up in the middle of the night because she was having a panic attack and needed me to bring her water and tell her everything was going to be okay. Me, I had a homeless father who one day simply disappeared from my life. Me, I had no one.

I lifted my glass. After swallowing a generous sip of wine, I said, “Since you’re forcing me to eat with you, I may as well tell you about my day.”

Lisa put her elbows on the table and leaned forward, causing the table to shake a little. “Oooh did something exciting happen?”

I took another sip and let the warm liquid slide down my throat warming my entire body. Then I downed a spoonful of chili.

She tapped the table. “Come on, you’re suck a jerk. Hurry up and tell me.”

“I hate this table. We need to chip in for a new one or get it fixed,” I said.

“Replacing it isn’t going to happen. Grace’s grandmother gave it to her. Anyway, stop stalling and tell me about your day.”

Grace’s grandmother had died of a stroke about a year ago. She and Grace had been close.

“I don’t know if I should tell you now. Apologize for calling me a jerk.”

She sat back in her chair and exhaled. “I’m sorry I called you a jerk. Now, details, let’s go, spill.”

I tucked my hair behind my ear. “I got asked out on a date.”

She put her hand over her mouth. “What? More please.”

“Calm down. His name is Reece.”

“Reece? Like the Terminator guy?” she asked.

“The good guy, not the Arnold guy.”

“I’ve never seen the movie,” she said.

“Something you must correct soon.”

“You have a thing for old movies. I don’t. But anyway, who cares? Go on. Who is he? What does he look like? And more importantly, when are you going out with him?” She scooped some chili up with her spoon.

I bit my lip. There was no going back now. Lisa expected juicy details and I had none. I mean, why in all hell had I opened my ridiculously stupid mouth? I really had nothing to tell. I should have just gone to my room. Besides, it wasn’t as if I was going to see Reece again so my story, my short episode, would go down as the most boring boy-meets-girl tale ever.

I scratched my head. “He’s my boss’s nephew.”

“Uh, huh, and?”

“There’s not a whole lot to tell. He came in today to meet with my boss about his manuscript.”

She clapped twice, as if she was a little girl at the circus. “Ooh, what kind of stuff does he write? Grace is going to love this. She’s writing a novel, too. ”

I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “I didn’t know that.”

“If you didn’t spend so much time in your room and actually hung out with us every now and then, you’d know more stuff.”

“Do you want to hear the rest of it or are you settling in to give me a guilt trip? If it’s the latter, I’m out of here.”

“I’ll save the guilt trip for later. So, when are you going out with him?”

Here we go, the moment my story comes to a screeching halt. “I’m not.”

“Why? For the love of all things that are good, why not? Is he crazy? Ugly? Smells?”

“He’s definitely not ugly. He didn’t seem crazy, but then you know what they say about writers.”

“Smells?”

“Stop being dumb. No, he didn’t smell.”

“So what then?”

“He’s my boss’ nephew. I just thought that would be weird.”

“You’re wound up tighter than anyone I have ever met. Are you very sure you’re only twenty-three? You act like you’re a hundred. My grandmother still goes out on dates and with younger men.”

I let out a long breath. “Yes, yes, I know about your cougar grandmother. Look, I know you think I’m boring, but trust me, going out with my boss’ nephew is not a good idea.”

“He didn’t ask you to marry him. You’re hopeless.”

“I’m going to go take a shower.” I made a mental note not to tell Lisa anything about my love life or lack thereof again. Ha, love life!

I needed to relax and a warm shower always did the trick—that and a glass of wine.

She looked me up and down. “Go right ahead. Run away, like you always do.”

Standing up from my chair, I said, “I’m not running away, I’m just taking a shower.”

“Uh huh, okay, whatever makes you feel better.”

I tapped her on the shoulder. “The chili was good.”

She brushed my hand off. “You barely ate any of it.”

“I’ll eat more later, promise.”

Lisa always took offense when someone didn’t devour her food, which pretty much meant I was always offending her.

“Hope you think of Reece when you’re in the shower. Maybe the two of you can have some wild, dreamy shower sex,” she yelled as I walked down the hall to the bathroom.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I knew it! You do like him!”

“Okay, okay, I admit to maybe, maybe liking him a little bit.”