It was too late to argue with him last night and it’s too early to argue with him this morning.

He looks relieved to see me sitting out here. He probably thought I ran away in the middle of the night when he saw I wasn’t in my bed just now.

I’ve wanted to run away so many times, but where would I go? I feel like I no longer belong anywhere. Samson was the first place I felt I belonged and that was ripped from me.

My father sits down next to me. I don’t ease into his comfort like I eased into Samson’s. I’m stiff and unyielding.

He watches the sunrise with me, but his presence ruins it. It’s hard to find the beauty in it when I have so much anger directed at the man sitting next to me.

“Remember the first time we went to the beach?” he asks.

I shake my head. “I’ve never been to the beach before this summer.”

“Yes, you have. You were young, though. Maybe you don’t remember it, but I took you to Santa Monica when you were about four or five.”

I finally make eye contact with him. “I’ve been to California?”

“Yeah. You don’t remember?”

“No.”

His expression is regretful for a moment, but then he removes his arm from the back of the chair and stands up. “I’ll be right back. I have pictures here somewhere. I grabbed the album from our house in Houston when I found out you were coming.”

He has pictures of my childhood? Supposedly on a beach?

I’ll believe it when I see it.

A few minutes later, my father comes back with a photo album. He takes his seat in the chair again and opens it up, sliding it over to me.

I flip through the photos and feel like I’m looking at someone else’s life. There are so many pictures of me that I don’t even remember being taken. Days I have absolutely no recollection of.

I get to a section of pictures of me running in the sand, and I can’t connect them to a memory. I probably didn’t even realize the meaning behind a road trip at that age.

“When was this?” I ask, pointing to a picture with me sitting at a table in front of a birthday cake, but there’s a small Christmas tree in the background. My birthday is months after Christmas, and I normally only visited my father in the summer. “I don’t remember having Christmas with you.”

“Technically, you didn’t. Since you only came in the summer, I’d roll all the holidays into one big celebration.”

I vaguely remember that now that he mentions it. I have faded memories of being painfully full while opening presents. But that was so long ago, and those memories didn’t carry with me through the years. Neither did the traditions, apparently.

“Why did you stop?” I ask him.

“I don’t know, honestly. You started to grow up, and every year when you would come visit, you seemed less interested in the silly things. Or maybe I just assumed you were. You were such a quiet child; it was hard to get anything out of you.”

I blame my mother for that.

I flip through the album and pause on a picture of me sitting in my father’s lap. We’re both smiling at the camera. He has his arm around me, and I’m snuggled against him.

All these years, I didn’t think he was ever affectionate with me. There were so many years of him not being affectionate with me, those are the things I remember the most.

I run my finger over the picture, saddened by whatever happened between us to change our relationship.

“When did you stop treating me like your daughter?”

My father sighs, and his sigh is full of so many things. “I was twenty-one when you were born. I never knew what I was doing with you. It was easier to fake when you were little, but as you grew up, I just…I felt guilty. That guilt started working its way into our time together. I felt like your visits with me were an inconvenience for you.”

I shake my head. “It was the only thing I ever looked forward to.”

“I wish I’d known that,” he says quietly.

I’m starting to wish I’d told him.

If there’s one thing I learned from Samson this summer, it’s that holding everything in accomplishes nothing. It just causes the truth to hurt even worse in the end.

“I had no idea what kind of mother she was, Beyah. Sara told me some things last night that you told her and I just...” His voice sounds shaky, like he’s working to hold back tears. “I did so many things wrong. I have no excuse. You have every right to be resentful because you’re right. I should have fought harder to get to know you. I should have fought harder to spend more time with you.”

My father takes the photo album from me and sets it on the chair next to him. He faces me with an expression full of unease. “I feel like what you’re doing—allowing this guy’s fate to dictate your own future—it’s my fault, because I never set an example for you. But despite that, you turned out to be the amazing person that you are, and that is not because of me. It’s because of you. You’re a fighter, so naturally you want to stay and fight for Samson. Maybe it’s because you see so much of yourself in him. But what if he’s not who you think he is, and you make the wrong decision?”

“But what if he’s exactly who I think he is?”

My father takes my right hand and holds it between both of his. He looks so sincere, staring at me with such raw honesty. “If Samson is the person you think he is, what do you think he would want for you? Do you think he would want you to give up everything you’ve worked for?” I look away from my father, toward the sunrise. I’m holding all my feelings in my throat.

“I love you, Beyah. Enough to admit that you’ve been let down by too many people in your life. Me being one of them. The only person who has ever been completely loyal to you is you. You’re doing yourself a disservice by not putting yourself first right now.”

I lean forward and hold my head in my hands. I squeeze my eyes shut. I know that’s what Samson wants—for me to put myself before him. I just don’t want him to want that for me.

My father rubs his hand over my back, and the feeling is so soothing, I lean into him, wrapping my arms around him. He hugs me back, running a gentle hand over my head.

“I know it hurts,” he whispers. “I wish I could take that pain away from you.”

It does hurt. It’s fucking brutal. It isn’t fair. I finally have something good in my life and now I’m being forced to leave it behind.

They’re right, though. Everyone is right but me. I need to put myself first. It’s what I’ve always done and it’s worked for me so far.

I think about the letter Samson wrote to me, and that last line that got caught up in my heart. Go flood the whole goddamn world, Beyah.

I inhale a gulp of the salty morning air, knowing I won’t get very many more of them before I leave for Pennsylvania. “Will you take care of Pepper Jack Cheese while I’m gone?”

My father sighs with relief. “Of course I will.” He presses a soft kiss into my hair. “I love you, Beyah.”

There’s so much truth in his words, and for the first time, I allow myself to believe him.

This is the moment I release it all. Every single thing from my childhood that’s made my heart so heavy.

I release my anger toward my father.