Chapter 14
daisies for little Maya
Maya
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
Philip should’ve been here.
I wanted to throw it in her face with him watching—to see if he’d finally remember me. If he’d deny it. Twist it. Dress the truth up in another elegant lie.
“Little Maya, look what I brought today.”
The words keep replaying in my mind.
I swallow hard, but the ache doesn’t budge.
I didn’t know what love from a father felt like until Philip stepped into our lives. Before him, there was only the man who gave me his name… a man who struck my mother when the bottle ran dry, and called it love as she folded into herself with every hit.
She’d cover the bruises with long sleeves, heavy makeup, and that same forced smile that made it all look normal. As if I hadn’t heard her the night before… her voice cracking, begging him to stop.
He never raised a hand to me, but he never raised a hand for me either. Not to hold mine. Not to clap when I came home with perfect grades. Not to say he was proud.
I was always one of the best in my class.
He didn’t care. He didn’t even show up to my school plays. But Mom did. She always did.
When he died in a car accident, I cried. For days, maybe weeks.
I didn’t want to eat. Didn’t want to go to school.
Now, looking back, I understand that I was able to move past my grief once it finally sank in that he would never hurt her again and would never look at me as if I were a mistake he wished he could erase. Maybe, in some twisted way, it was mercy.
Mom grieved every day until Philip appeared.
One evening, when she dropped me off at my uncle’s house, she returned later with a bouquet of red roses and a smile that lit up her face.
When I asked who they were from, she said. “Someone very special. The most special person I’ve ever met.”
I met Philip on my eleventh birthday.
He came for dinner, carrying a gift. His presence seemed to warm the room before he even spoke.
I remember being upset because my uncle, aunt and little cousin couldn’t come—but then he smiled, and the room changed.
He was shorter than my father. Almost Mom’s height.
And I remember thinking: maybe that means he won’t hurt her. Maybe she’ll be safe this time.
During dinner, I stayed quiet. My father never liked anyone talking at the table.
But Philip kept asking me questions, about my school, my favorite books, my dreams. When I told him about the essay I’d written on protecting the environment, and how it got picked as the best in class, he asked to read it.
So I ran to my room, heart racing, to fetch it.
When I came back, they were kissing. Just a small, quick kiss—but it froze me in place.
They pulled apart when they noticed me. Mom smiled, eyes shining.
And Philip… he smiled, too.
He took the paper from my hands and read it. When he finally looked up, there was warmth in his eyes, the kind that made me feel seen in a way I hadn’t been before.
“You have a gift,” he said. “A real way with words.”
Then he told me about his little girl who loves to write, too. I asked if I could play with her sometime, and he chuckled.
“She’ll always be my little girl,” he said, “but she’s older now. Married. Has a son.”
“Oh,” I said. “Is it a baby? Can I meet him?”
Mom’s smile faltered for just a second, before she changed the subject.
Philip didn’t answer. And somehow, I knew not to ask again.
After that night, he started coming over more often.
Soon, he was staying the night. His clothes began appearing in Mom’s closet—a shirt here, a jacket there—and soon, his books found their way onto our living-room shelves.
Sometimes weeks, even more than a month, would pass without seeing him.
But whenever he called, I’d ask to talk, and Mom would hand me the phone, smiling in that soft, distracted way she always did when it came to him.
He’d ask about school, my grades, my favorite subjects. And I’d try harder after that. I liked how his eyes softened when he looked at my report cards.
Like he was proud. Like I was worth being proud of.
Whenever he came to visit, he brought two bouquets—roses for my mother, daisies for me.
“Roses for my Grace,” he’d say, kissing her cheek, then pressing a softer kiss to my forehead, “and daisies for little Maya.”
He was the first person to call me Maya. Everyone else said Amaya, the name my father chose.
But when Philip said Maya, it sounded different. It felt like love. It was the love a father gives without needing to say the word.
It sounded like belonging… as if I were someone worth loving.
“Little Maya, you’re so smart.”
“Little Maya, what do you want to be when you grow up?”
“Little Maya, how was your day?”
Those words lived in me for years.
In the months before everything fell apart, he was everywhere. He came to Sunday lunches. He laughed with my uncle and his family. He kissed Mom’s hand in front of everyone.
Everyone adored him. Everyone thought he was perfect.
Until the day he wasn’t. Until everything changed.
“You’re lying.”
Her voice pulls me back to the present.
I look at her. Cecily.
Philip’s little girl.
I hate that she made me unravel like that. But I couldn’t help it, not with the way she looked at me. From above, even though she’s a few inches shorter. Like I was filth she’d stepped in by accident. Like breathing the same air as me was beneath her.
I couldn’t let it end there. I needed the last word, even if it cut me too.
I just hope it won’t cost me too much.
“Am I?” I tilt my head, my gaze locked on hers. “Or are you lying to yourself, clinging to that perfect-family illusion because it’s easier than facing the truth?”
Cecily studies me, her eyes scanning my face as if searching for a lie she can hold on to.
“What would you even gain by making something like that up?” she says finally, her voice laced with contempt. “If it’s Colin you want, you can have him. He’s all yours.”
A laugh escapes me.
“Oh, Cecily,” I say. “What do you think your father was really doing on all those work trips he took? He wasn’t some world-famous speaker giving lectures for a week straight, and certainly not more than once a year.”
Sarcasm coats my words. Even she can’t be that naive.
“He always brought a large bouquet of red roses for my mom,” I say, lowering my voice, “and a smaller one of daisies for me.”
Her eyes widen, just slightly. But it’s enough. Enough to make my stomach twist.
He did the same with her and her mother, didn’t he?
“He used to say, ‘Roses for my Grace.’”
My voice softens against my will. “My mother’s name was Graceline. He said she was his Grace.”
All those memories rush back, so sweet and too cruel.
“For almost a year, he practically lived with us,” I whisper.
“He even came to my school plays when I was in fifth grade. Everyone used to say he and my mom were the most beautiful couple they’d ever seen.”
And they were.
Mom had never looked as radiant as she did when she was loved by Philip.
I’ll never forget the first time I heard them say I love you.
It was the middle of the night. I’d gone to the kitchen for water.
Mom was leaning against the counter in her robe, Philip in nothing but his pajama pants, his arms wrapped around her.
“I love you, my Grace,” he said.
She smiled, said she loved him more, and they kissed.
I froze, embarrassed, then ran back to my room, my face burning. But before falling asleep, I giggled under the covers, replaying their words.
It felt like one of those movie scenes Mom loved to watch, where love looked easy, beautiful, safe.
And they did love each other. That’s what makes it worse.
“No matter what your father tells you now,” I say finally, my voice low, “or whatever lies he feeds you to make peace with himself. He loved my mother. He loved her, and he was the one who destroyed her.”
My friend’s mom dropped me off after school, and I half-skipped up the walkway, my backpack bouncing against my shoulder.
I knew Philip hadn't left. His car was parked right out front, in the same place he’d left it yesterday afternoon.
“Philip! You can’t do this! Philip, I love you!”
I stopped at the door. Mom’s voice sounded strange.
She always said his name like she was smiling. But not this time.
This time it sounded like she was crying, and it made my stomach twist.
When I walked into the living room, Philip was standing there with two suitcases on the floor. Mom had her arms around him, holding him so tight, like she was scared he might disappear if she let go.
But he wasn’t hugging her back.
He just stood there, motionless, like one of the statues at the park.
His face looked weird. Not happy. Not mad. Just… gone.
“Graceline, you need to let me go,” he said.
His voice didn’t sound like his voice.
Why was he calling her Graceline?
He never called her that. He always said Grace.
“No! No, you’re making a mistake!” Mom was crying now. “She’ll never love you like I do! She’ll never be woman enough for you!”
Philip didn’t even look at her. He stared at the big clock on the wall, like he wanted time to move faster.
Mom grabbed his face with both hands and made him look at her.
“I can give you all the children you want,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’m still young. I can give you a son. A beautiful boy, just like you.”
Her hands were trembling, but she kept smiling through the tears.
Philip gently moved her hands away and picked up the suitcases.
When he turned, he saw me. His eyes went wide.
He kept walking, and when he passed me, he swallowed hard, set one suitcase down, and patted my head.
“Take care, little Maya.”
Then he walked away.
Mom followed him, continuing to cry and beg. I didn’t move. But I heard everything.
Mom begging him not to leave. Saying he could come less. That she wouldn’t complain. That she would wait.
That she would do anything. That she loved him.
He didn’t say it back. Not even once.
“It’s over, Graceline,” he said finally. “I’ll always choose my wife. She’s the woman I can’t live without. The one I promised to spend the rest of my life with.”