He had done his best. Had raised the girl as if she were his own, though she was not.
“You’re not my father,” she had said, flat and cold, as she left his house for the last time, left the bedroom full of music and makeup, the front room full of games they’d seldom played, the kitchen with the portrait of her mother. It was the last thing she’d said. An alien message she’d broadcast in the chopped Romanian of the city; the last cryptogram in a decade-long transmission of codes he’d never understood.

“Fatherhood”

About the story: What if there are multiple ways to look at our reality, some quotidiona, some epic?