Staircase #4
My dad looked out the window too, watching a pair of wings flutter near the glass before settling on the perch.
He did not sigh. He did not push me away and all the memories that came with it.
He just sat there, looking at the only piece of my mother he had left out in the open.
A piece that had been right in front of me for my entire life.
“Every morning,” he said. “She asked me to take over the chore on the day she went into labor with you. Said she would forget because her baby was here. Didn’t want them to go hungry.”
I processed his words while trying not to hide from the thunder of my mother. It was a promise he’s kept for the same number of days I have been alive, it seems.
“You see those rose bushes?” he asked me, and I looked back at the faded photo, noticing the deep red flowers beside her. Those roses were not here anymore. “She loved them. She named you after them. Seren Rose.”
“I didn’t know that,” I told him, and I felt that odd feeling that comes when you learn your own history far too late.
By the time the four o’clock alarm buzzed on my phone, the three boxes were gone. We had sorted everything into three piles: one for the trash, one for the donation bin, and a small, neat stack of things I was taking back to North Haven in my tote bag.
My dad stood up from the dining chair, his joints making a quiet popping sound that he didn’t bother to complain about.
He walked me to the front door, his steps matching that new, slow pace he had carried all afternoon.
Usually, our goodbyes were a masterclass in architectural rigidity.
A stiff leaning-in, a quick pat on the shoulder blade, a mutual sigh of relief once the screen door was securely between us.
But as I reached for the doorknob, he didn’t retreat.
“Hold on,” he murmured. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph of my mother on the porch. He held it by the edges, the way you handle something old and precious, and slid it into the top of my tote bag. “Take this. I’ve looked at it enough.”
“Dad, are you sure?” I asked, my fingers brushing the glossy paper. “You don’t want to keep it?”
“I have the feeder,” he said simply.
Then, before I could register the shift, he stepped into my space.
He did not hesitate or look around for a distraction.
He just put his arms around me. It was not the obligation-driven hug from the dinner.
It was a real embrace. He smelled like dust and cedar and cold coffee, and he held me exactly one second longer than he needed to.
He pulled back, his hands lingering on my shoulders for a beat, his face completely serene.
“You’re a good girl, Seren,” he said softly. “You’ve always been so good.”
It was a small sentence, but my throat was tightening with a strange, sweet yet bitter feeling.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I stepped out onto the porch, suddenly feeling the urge to not linger. “I’ll text you when I get back.”
He nodded once, leaning against the doorframe, watching me walk down the gravel path just as the dying goose horn of Cassidy’s car echoed down the hill.
“Well?” Cassidy asked the second the passenger door clicked shut. She had shifted back into her vacation-mode energy, a half-eaten bag of chips sitting in the center console. “Did he make you sign away your firstborn child or what?”
I leaned back against the headrest, letting out a long, slow breath as the car pulled away from the colonial house, away from West Bridge, away from the town that had spent years trying to break me. But the panic from this morning did not come back.
“No,” I said. “It was actually… good. He seemed lighter. Happy.”
“Look at that,” Cassidy said, her voice genuinely warm as she flicked her turn signal on for the highway. “Miracles happen on Fridays. Maybe the old man is finally learning how to breathe.”
“Yeah,” I murmured, tapping my fingers against the dashboard. “I think he is.”
By the time we got back to North Haven, the sun was sinking low.
Zane wasn’t home yet, his final review session ran until eight, so the blue apartment was entirely quiet when I let myself in.
I walked into our bedroom, the walls catching the dimming sunset light.
I reached into my tote bag and pulled out the photograph.
I didn’t put it in a drawer, like part of me wanted to.
I walked over to the small wooden dresser near the window and propped the print against the vintage glass lamp I had found at a flea market.
It was the first picture of my mother to ever live in a home of my own.
I stepped back to look at it. The sundress she was wearing in the photo matched the paint on our bedroom walls so perfectly it looked intentional.
Like she had been waiting for this exact room to show up.
My phone was sitting on the mattress. I picked it up, unlocking the screen, and opened the message thread with my dad.
Me: Made it back safe. Thanks for lunch, Dad. The birds were nice.
I hit send and sat down on the edge of the bed, watching the three dots materialize, dissolve, and materialize again in the quiet of the blue room.