Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138072 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 690(@200wpm)___ 552(@250wpm)___ 460(@300wpm)
I smile as I gaze at her, her hair wild even though I put it in a tight braid this morning. “Hey, little one.”
Three-and-a-half feet tall, just shy of forty pounds—average, for a five-year-old, but that’s the only thing average about Maddie. Smart, compassionate, creative. She insists on dressing herself, which means nothing ever matches, but the girl somehow makes it work.
Everything I do is all about her—anything to keep the smile on her face, because that smile is what keeps me going. It’s the reason I get out of bed in the morning. That smile tells me I’m doing okay.
In a world filled with so much wrong, it’s nice to know I’m doing something right.
She wraps her arms around my waist in a hug as the bus pulls away. I hear the door bang and watch as my father strolls out onto the porch.
“Grandpa!” Maddie says excitedly, running to him. “I made you something!”
She yanks her backpack off, dropping it to the old wood, and digs through it for a piece of paper—a drawing. She shoves it at him, and he takes it, a serious look on his face. Rubbing his scruffy chin, he squints his eyes as he studies it. “Hmmm…”
Maddie stands in front of him on the porch, eyes wide. I stifle a laugh. How many times have I seen this play out? His house is wallpapered with her art. Same routine, every single time. She eagerly waits for his assessment, nervous, and without fail, he always says it’s the best whatever-she-drew he’s ever seen.
“This,” he says, nodding, “is the greatest puppy I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”
Maddie laughs. “It’s not a puppy!”
“It’s not?”
“It’s a seal,” she says, yanking the top of the paper down to look at it. “See? It’s all gray and it’s got a ball!”
“Oh, that’s what I meant! A baby seal is called a puppy, too.”
“Nuh-uh.”
“Yep.”
Maddie looks to me to be referee. “Mommy?”
“They’re called pups,” I tell her.
She turns back to him, grinning. “It’s a good puppy?”
“The best,” he confirms.
She hugs him before grabbing the drawing and running inside the house to hang it up.
I join my father on the porch. “Nice save.”
“Tell me about it,” he says, eyes studying me for a moment. “You’re off work early today.”
“Yeah, well... it’s been one of those days,” I say—one of those days where the past comes rushing back. “Besides, I have to work a double tomorrow, so I’ve earned it.”
“A double.” He looks confused. “Don’t you have plans tomorrow night?”
“Yep.” I pause before correcting myself. “Well, I mean, I did.”
I so rarely have time for a social life that I didn’t even consider that.
“But I could use the money, and I’ve already got a babysitter on tap,” I say, slapping my father on the back. “Can’t say no to that.”
Shaking his head, he sits down on an old rocking chair on the porch. It’s starting to drizzle again, the sky darkening. I lean against the railing, staring out at it as Maddie comes back outside, leaping off the porch.
The girl loves storms.
I can’t remember the last time I played in the rain.
That’s what I think as I watch her running through the small front yard, splashing in the puddles and stomping in the mud.
Did I ever have that much fun?
Was my life ever that carefree?
I can’t remember.
I wish I could.
“Something’s bothering you,” my father says. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
Turning around, I lean back against the wooden banister, crossing my arms over my chest as I regard him. He rocks back and forth, an identical chair beside him glaringly vacant. My mother used to sit there with him every morning, drinking coffee before he set off to work.
We buried her a year ago.
Twelve long months have passed, but the wound still feels raw, the memories of that day gnawing away at me. It was the last time I saw him, too, as I stood right here on this porch. If the headline I caught earlier is any indication, he’s had quite an interesting year.
“What makes you think it has anything to do with him?” I ask, forcing myself not to react, like it doesn’t matter, but I’m not an actress.
“You have that look again,” my father says. “That vacant, lost stare. I’ve seen it a few times, and it’s always him.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Of course. I’m fine.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t fine. I said you looked lost, not that you didn’t know your way.”
He’s eyeing me warily. I’m not sure if there’s even a point to lying about it when the truth is written all over my face.
And the truth is, I do feel lost.
“Caught a story in a tabloid,” I say. “It claimed he’d gotten married.”
“And you believe it?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It doesn’t really matter, does it? It’s his life. He’ll do whatever he wants.”