Every relationship ended the exact same way.
The date would go perfectly.
My father would call me afterward and tell me about the restaurant, the conversation, and whatever small detail had made the woman laugh.
He never sounded arrogant.
He sounded relieved.
They would make plans to see each other again.
Then, by the next morning, the woman had disappeared.
No calls.
No texts.
No explanation.
The first time, my father assumed she had become busy.
The second time, he thought he had misunderstood her interest.
By the third, he started blaming himself.
“Maybe I talk about your mother too much,” he said.
“You barely mention her on dates.”
“Maybe I am too old-fashioned.”
“You held a door open for her. That is not a crime.”
He gave me a tired smile, but my reassurance never seemed to reach him.
My father was heartbroken every single time.
“I don’t understand,” he’d whisper.
“They all seemed so happy.”
I hated watching him lose confidence.
Every rejection pulled him further back into the man he had become after Mom died.
He stopped singing again.
He checked his phone every few minutes.
