The fluorescent lights of the gas station hummed against the darkness like tired insects. I sat on the weathered bench outside, clutching a paper bag from the pharmacy—blood pressure medication, the pharmacist had said, and please take it with food. At sixty-seven, my body had become a collection of warnings and prescriptions, small surrenders to time that I pretended not to notice.
The night air carried the smell of gasoline and fried food from the convenience store. I should have been home already, but my legs ached from the walk, and I’d learned to listen when they demanded rest. The bus had dropped me here, still two miles from my rented room on the edge of town.
I’d make it eventually. I always did. My mind circled, as it often did these days, around a single name: Maya Stovall.
My daughter. Five years since I’d seen her face, heard her voice, held her hand. The last time we’d spoken, I’d said words I could never take back: “If you marry him, don’t call me father again.”
Marcus Thorne.
Even now, his name tasted bitter. I’d known from the moment he walked into our home with his practiced smile and wandering eyes that something was wrong. But Maya had been young and stubborn, and I’d been old and stubborn, and those two kinds of stubborn don’t mix well.
So she’d married him. My wife had attended the ceremony alone, sitting uncomfortably among Marcus’s loud family while I stayed home, nursing my pride like a wound. Six months later, my wife passed away.
Heart failure, the doctor said, but I knew better. A heart can fail from many things, and losing your only daughter is one of them. I’d sold our house in the country after that.
Too many memories, too many empty rooms echoing with arguments I wished I could redo. I moved to the city, found this small rental, and tried to convince myself I was starting over rather than giving up. Three years ago, Maya had called.
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