When Alice was just six, my dear wife passed away. After that day, nothing felt quite real anymoreeverything seemed tinged by a strange fog. At my wife’s funeral, I murmured a promise to her: I would care for our daughter and love her doubly, as we both would have, for as long as I drew breath. My Alice grew into a clever young lady, always learning, lending a hand about the house, and cooking in that wonderful way her mother once didthe sort of meals you remember in your dreams, sweet and lingering. As time moved like mist across the windows, Alice began university. Her grades slipped, but I hardly cared; she worked as well, and still found occasion to help around our little home.
Later, Alice brought home a young man named William. Soon after, she introduced him to mehe seemed every bit the decent sort, and I felt a peculiar happiness when they told me their plan: after the wedding, theyd live with me in our two-room cottage. Yet everything spun out of orbit the moment the wedding ended. My son-in-law grew cold and sharp, his words like frost on the panes, shouting at me for the smallest things.
So when Alice suggested selling the cottage and buying a grand flat in London, I laid down a single rule: the new flat must be in my name. William, as you can imagine, erupted in protest, accusing me of mistrust. But I said simply, “All I want is some certainty I won’t be cast out like an old kettle when I grow feeble. After I’m gone, it’s yours to do with as you please.” Words hung in the air like strange smoke.
After that, Alice and William packed their belongingshurling insults like pebbles in the dark. Two days later, they moved to the city, leaving behind echoes and dust motes.
Alice seemed to drift from my life, as if Id become a faded painting in the hallway. But in my soul, I clung to hope that one day my daughter would see things through my eyes and forgive. When my sixtieth birthday approached, I could almost taste the surprisesure she’d come dancing in at any second. I scrubbed the house until the boards creaked, cooked all of Alices childhood favourites, dressed in my Sunday best, and sat at the table by the window. The whole day, I watched for the garden gate to swing open, longing for a glimpse of Alice stepping out of the June haze.
But evening settled heavy on my shoulders. I changed clothes and went to bed, leaving the feast untouched on the table. Silent, I wept and spoke into the old gloom with my wifes photograph for company, until sleep claimed me like a rising tide. Was Alice truly so cross that she couldnt ring her old father on his birthday? Or had some misfortune befallen her in that far-off city? Surely, my Alicethe daughter from all my yesterdayscouldnt have vanished from my dream quite so completely…
