He came to me last night.

I was already ready for bed and in my pjs when I heard the knock on my door. I knew the knock immediately, because there was only one person who knocked that way.

Dad looked almost disturbingly calm. I told him to take a seat and sat down on my bed myself, waiting for whatever was about to come. Nobody said a word for what seemed like an eternity. I looked at him and he looked at me. Just when I thought I had waited long enough, he started talking.

He talked. To me.

For the first time in almost a month, he talked to me.

I almost started crying just because of this tiny bit of progress.

He told me he wanted to apologize for his behavior and his poor handling of the whole "situation". I chuckled a little when he used that word. I obviously am a "situation" to him.

Oh well. I can handle that. At least I am something.

He told me about the fight he had with mom the day before yesterday and how she had made him look at everything in a different light.

He told me he was sorry for not being there for me during the last weeks when I had needed his support more than ever.

And he told me he would do anything to help me from now on.

As long as I agreed to spend a little father-son time with him in the following weeks.

I studied his face the whole time during this speech. He had it well prepared, almost professionally, as he prepared everything. There's a reason why he's a brilliant lawyer after all. But I could see that this time, he actually meant what he was saying.

Because through his perfect poker face, I could see him tremble. I could see the tiny shifts in his otherwise calm expression telling me that all of this moved him to the very core. I could also see that he was terrified.

Good. Another thing we have in common.

I just sat there and listened until he had finished what he had to say before I moved over to the edge of the bed, closer to where he was sitting. I didn't say anything, because I couldn't find the right words, so I just took his hand and squeezed it. Tightly.

After a couple of minutes, he got up and left. Just like that.

I stared at the door for a long time after he had closed it behind him.

So he wanted "a little father-son time". Fine. I can handle that.

But the longer I'm thinking about it, the more uncomfortable I'm getting. Despite my relief that he has obviously come to his senses, I have the feeling that there's a twist.