The house had grown quieter in the six months since Richard (Richie) passed away. His coffee mug still sat on the shelf where he’d left it. Some mornings I’d pass the kitchen and swear I smelled his cologne lingering in the doorway.
Mia and I were two heartbeats in a house built for three. She used to be a noisy kid. Now she moved through rooms as though she were apologizing for taking up space.
Mia walked in, dropped her backpack, and froze when she saw it.
The school flyer came home on a Monday, all pink letters, glitter trim, and ‘Father-Daughter Dance, Friday Night’ printed across the front.
I set it on the counter and waited.
Mia walked in, dropped her backpack, and froze when she saw it.
“I’m not going,” she said.