One day as I was leaving for school, I turned to my mother. "I think Dad is on his way here."
She turned and looked at me, shaking her head. "He just called last week and said he'll be in California, dear. Don't get your hopes up. I don't see how he can make it up here to Spokane."
I did not tell my mother the truth—that I wasn't really hoping for him to come. In fact, it was actually quite the opposite. My stomach had been doing nervous jumps all morning, and my insides felt edgy and anxious. It was too familiar and too uncomfortable.
"Mom, I can feel it. He'll be here." I spoke in a matter-of-fact way. The feeling had been building for a few days, until it felt like I was suffering from a form of paranoia. Just yesterday afternoon I had begun looking out my window every few minutes, watching for my father's car or truck to park in front of my home. This growing, deep-seated anxiety was so strong, it had prompted me to tell my mother.
As I prepared to walk out the door, I stopped to give her a hug. "He will be here very soon."
"We'll see," she responded. Her tone reflected how skeptical she was. If I hadn't been feeling so serious, it would have made me laugh. This was the fourth or fifth time we'd had this conversation, and every time I told her, she was skeptical until the second she answered the door and my dad was standing on her porch.