I didn't want things. Not anymore.
I'd learned the cost.
A faint buzz came from my phone on the shelf.
One message.
A photo attachment.
My daughter.
The picture loaded slowly.
Fourteen now. First day of high school.
She stood in front of what looked like the front gate, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair pulled into a loose braid that had probably taken longer than she’d admit. Too tall already. Too confident in that quiet way she’d inherited from her mother.
And smiling straight at the camera.
The caption came through beneath the photo.
SOFIA:first day. don’t panic
I stared at it longer than necessary.
Fourteen.
The last time I’d blinked she’d been small enough to sit on my shoulders while I carried her down a beach outside Cape Town, her mother walking beside us.
Back when we were still a family.
Now she was starting high school and texting me photos like I was just another contact in her phone.
Time moved faster when you were somewhere else.
My thumbs moved before I could overthink it.
ME:You look terrifyingly competent.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then:
SOFIA:that’s the point
SOFIA:love u dad
My throat tightened in a way I didn’t particularly appreciate.
ME:Love you too, baby. Go conquer high school.
A small pause.
Then:
SOFIA:trying
I stared at the screen a second longer than necessary before setting the phone down.
