I thought the nightmares would stop once I was secure and in love, but they didn’t. They revisited me every time I closed my eyes, always replaying the same fear: being alone. When dreams recur, it is often because your subconscious is trying to tell you something. And one morning, I woke up and realized what it was: I was worried about losing my father. He was still ill; now he was having trouble with his prostate. I was consumed by a fear that he would die far away from me, and that we’d never have the chance to make up for all those years of running away from each other.

Talking to him every day wasn’t really filling the emotional void I felt. It was good hearing his voice, but it made me miss him more each time. My brother and his family had moved up to New Jersey to be with my father, but it didn’t alleviate the sadness and the strain in my father’s voice. I started crying myself to sleep at night because I missed him so much. It was as if I was a little girl again, staying up all night waiting for my dad to come home.

It seemed strange to feel the emotion of missing him, because he’d never been there for me, but I couldn’t help feeling a hole inside where a family was supposed to go. I started talking to Tony more as well. One of the main reasons our conversations were so awkward, I realized, was my fault: I was still jealous of his close relationship with my father.

Every time I went out with Jay and his sickeningly happy relatives, I thought of my dad thousands of miles away. I turned into such a wreck that my therapist told me I had post-traumatic stress disorder. I translated that to mean a late onset of separation anxiety from my father. It was time for him to stop running around and start acting like the old man he was. So, as usual, I made the first move. I called him and said, “How do you feel about moving?”

“Do you mean it?” my dad asked.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I mean it more than anything. Let’s be a family again —you, me, and Tony.”

“I’ll tell you what. I don’t want you to do anything for me. But I’m going to save as much money as I can and try to get out of here so I can join you.”

Tony had tucked away enough money to open his own tattoo shop. Since nearby Tempe, Arizona, was a college town, he figured it would be easy to turn a profit. So he arrived a month later with Selena and his son, Gage. Tony and I had grown so far apart that it took weeks before we were comfortable enough around each other to become friends again. And once we were, it was such a relief, because I’d never truly let him back in my life since I’d cut him out of it for stealing my meth. All along, a piece of me had been missing and I’d never been aware of it until it was back.

In general, I never worried about Tony, because he was successful wherever he went and whatever he did. I always knew, somehow, that we would eventually come full circle and become brother and sister again. But I had no sense of certainty with my father. His life was constantly up in the air. He clearly needed a way out of his dependence on this older woman he was living with. If he was going to be a kept man, he might as well be kept by me. I had the financial means to do it, and perhaps I could learn to have the mental means as well. So I sent him a check and told him to pack up and get out of there. I was through with being away from him. It wasn’t time to pick up where we had left off when I was fifteen, because we had never really started anything. It was time simply to begin.

When I finally saw my father, he looked so different. He had grown gentle, and had finally resigned himself to adulthood. I had never realized it before, but all along he had been a child, with two responsibilities —me and Tony— that he was too emotionally immature to handle. So he ran as far away as he could without abandoning us —both physically, by burying himself in his work, and emotionally. And when he got to Arizona, he instantly saw the change in me: his little drug-addled teenage daughter had actually turned out okay.

Sometimes I think it’s not fair that I’m giving my dad a happy ending when he never really gave me a happy beginning. But I can’t help caring about him in spite of everything. He could hurt me again, and I’d still go to the ends of the earth for him. And that’s simply because, as fucked up as he is, he is all I have, and it makes me more comfortable knowing that he’s close by. I may never have complete resolution with him. I’ve forgiven, but I haven’t forgotten. There will always be a permanent scar and, though it hasn’t yet healed fully, at least it doesn’t hurt anymore. Besides, since I’m paying his phone bill, I know that his number won’t be changing this time.