she says sheepishly, turning her phone over. There’s a muted video playing of my dad standing at a podium, the only tie he owns tied all wrong and his dress shirt from Grandpa’s funeral too tight across his belly. But I don’t think anyone is looking at him, only listening. Faces crumple along with his as he breaks down, and I don’t need to hear the words to know that he’s asking for someone, please, to bring his little girl back to him. “I brought myself back,” I tell him quietly, my thumb resting against the screen.
