The sun hadn’t fully risen yet when Betty found herself standing on the balcony outside her father’s office, barefoot, clutching a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. Her hair was still a mess from the night, and her eyes burned from lack of sleep. Inside, she could see him, reading a news article on his tablet, completely still. She didn’t want to talk. Not really. But her feet had brought her here.
When he finally looked up, he didn’t act surprised to see her.
“Want to come in?” he asked, setting the tablet aside.
She hesitated, then stepped inside. The smell of fresh paper and old coffee filled the room. Her dad watched her quietly as she sat down on the leather chair across from his.
“Rough night?”
She nodded.
“Is this about Marcus?”
She looked up sharply. He wasn’t scolding. Just asking.
“How much do you know?” she asked.
He leaned back. “Enough. I know he came to dinner and couldn’t stop glancing at you like you were the only thing holding the stars in place. I know you left the table like the air had been punched out of your chest. And I know there’s a video floating around that made you lock your bedroom door last night.”
Betty swallowed.
“Did you ever know something was wrong, but still wanted it to work?” she asked.
Her father didn’t answer right away. He turned toward the window instead, watching the sky shift from gray to gold.
“Your mom,” he said finally, “used to paint our mailbox every spring. I always hated the color. But I never told her. Because when she smiled while doing it, I figured hating something that made her happy was my problem, not hers.”
Betty blinked.
“You never told me much about her.”
“I wasn’t ready.” He looked back at her. “But now I think you are.”
He paused, then said, “When your mom got sick, she made me promise that I wouldn’t raise you to be small. She said, ‘Betty's going to be loud and bright and too much for some people. Promise you won’t dim her down to fit them.’”
Betty’s throat tightened.
“I think Marcus saw that about you,” he said. “Even if he didn’t deserve to at first.”
“He used me,” she whispered.
“He did. And he knows it. But people don’t film apologies at midnight for college essays. That boy was talking to you.”
She stared at her lap.
“So what do I do?”
Her dad smiled gently. “You decide if it was love blooming under bad soil—or just a weed with pretty petals. And if it’s the first one, you give it sunlight. If not, you walk away proud.”
She looked at him. Really looked. For the first time, she saw not just her father, but the man who had loved deeply and lost, who still believed in second chances.
“Thanks, Dad.”
He reached over and squeezed her hand. “You don’t need my permission. But for what it’s worth? I saw the way he looked at you too.”
And somehow, that made all the difference.