You shouldn't be sad," followed by age-inappropriate stories explaining why he shouldn't miss me. Every time I started to feel the dry lump in my throat and tears welling up, I would do so quietly in tiptoed to my mother's closet for a while, my father's clothes hanging back there, as if patiently waiting for his return as quietly as possible, hot tears streaming down my cheeks as I reached out for him. Gently stroking his clothes hovering above me escaped my pressed lips. As I looked through the crack of the closet door, the lights of the street below shone in my tear-filled eyes. Each blink brought another tear to the floor warm and salty along my freckled cheeks as I took a deep breath, my father's subtle scent was all that remained. That scent served to validate my feelings over others