Przy kolacji moja córka upokorzyła mnie: „Tato, jesteś ciężarem. Wynoś się”. Wyszedłem tego wieczoru tylko z torbą na zakupy. Myślała, że ​​mnie złamała, ale nie wiedziała o moim sekretnym życiu na drugim końcu miasta. Kiedy się dowiedziała, jej świat się zawalił.

The city passed slowly. Tall buildings with dark windows. Lives lit up behind closed curtains. People having dinner, watching television, laughing, living. Closed businesses with metal gates, graffiti on the walls, trash on the corners. Empty streets illuminated by orange streetlights that flickered, about to go out.

Like me.

I recognized some corners. The bakery where Rebecca bought bread on Sundays—closed now, with a For Sale sign. The park where I took Ashley when she was little—dark, empty, with rusty playground equipment.

Other corners I didn’t recognize. Everything had changed. New buildings where there used to be houses, parking lots where there used to be little squares.

Or maybe I was the one who no longer belonged. The one who had remained trapped in another time.

I looked at my reflection in the glass. A wrinkled old man with tired eyes. A two-day beard. Messy hair.

When did I get so old?

I don’t know.

You don’t realize it. It’s gradual. One day you wake up, look in the mirror, and you see your father. And then you understand you’ve already crossed to the other side. You’re already the old man people avoid on the bus, the one who smells like medicine, the one who coughs too much, the one who talks to himself.

You’re already the one who bothers people just by existing.

The one who’s extra.

The bus stopped, brakes screeching, doors opening with a tired sigh.

A young woman got on with a sleeping baby in her arms. She must have been about twenty-five. Hair tied back, tired face, simple clothes.

Siedziała z przodu. Dziecko się nie obudziło. Miał otwarte usta, zamknięte rączki. Kobieta kołysała je delikatnie z tą czułością, jaką mają tylko matki – tym automatycznym, nieświadomym ruchem, tą czystą miłością, która niczego w zamian nie żąda.

Spojrzałem na nią i poczułem coś ostrego w piersi. Fizyczny ból. Prawdziwy.

Bo pamiętałam, jak Ashley była taka – drobna, bezbronna, idealna. Kiedy potrzebowała mnie do wszystkiego: do jedzenia, do spania, do śmiechu.

Kiedy byłem jej bohaterem. Całym jej światem.

„Tato, zanieś mnie. Tato, opowiedz mi bajkę. Tato, boję się. Nie idź.”

I nigdy nie odchodziłem. Siedziałem przy jej łóżku, aż zasnęła. Śpiewałem jej. Wymyślałem dla niej historie.

Kiedy przestałam jej potrzebować? Kiedy z bohaterki stałam się dla niej ciężarem? Czy to było wtedy, gdy dorosła? Kiedy wyszła za mąż? Kiedy urodziła się Lily? A może wtedy, gdy Rebecca umarła i nie było już nikogo, kto by jej przypomniał, że ja też zasługuję na miłość?

Autobus znów ruszył. Kobieta wysiadła trzy przystanki dalej. Dziecko wciąż spało.

Ciągle patrzyłem przez okno, obserwując jak moje życie przelatuje obok, obserwując jak przelatuje wszystko, co utraciłem.

Patrick obserwował mnie przez lusterko wsteczne. Widziałem go. Nasze oczy spotykały się co jakiś czas. Odwrócił wzrok. Ja też.

Ale oboje wiedzieliśmy.

Wiedział, że chce zapytać, co taki stary człowiek jak ja robi sam z torbą zakupów o jedenastej w nocy. Chciał wiedzieć, czy wszystko w porządku, czy mam dokąd pójść, czy potrzebuję pomocy.

Ale on nie pytał.

I dziękowałam mu w milczeniu z każdym przebytym kilometrem, bo są pytania, które otwierają rany, które zmuszają do wypowiedzenia na głos tego, czego ledwo jesteś w stanie pomyśleć. A moje wciąż były świeże. Wciąż krwawiły. Wciąż bolały z każdym oddechem.

Autobus jechał dalej – powoli, zmęczony, jak ja. Jechaliśmy szerokimi, pustymi alejami. Przez dzielnice, które znałam, gdzie mieszkałam, gdzie pracowałam, gdzie byłam szczęśliwa. Przez miejsca, w których nie byłam już mile widziana, gdzie już nie pasowałam.

A potem dotarliśmy do szpitala św. Wincentego. Do tego białego budynku, który odebrał mi wszystko.

Rebecca zmarła tam trzy lata temu. Trzy lata, dwa miesiące i czternaście dni.

Ale kto to liczył?

Instynktownie zamknęłam oczy, zacisnęłam je mocno, jakby to mogło wymazać obraz, jakby to mogło wymazać wspomnienie.

Nie chciałem tego widzieć. Nie chciałem pamiętać. Ale nie mogłem tego uniknąć.

Szpital nadal tam stał – biały, zimny, imponujący, z tym czerwonym krzyżem na froncie, który obiecywał ratunek, lecz oznaczał jedynie pożegnanie.

Rebecca zmarła na trzecim piętrze, w pokoju 312. Znałem ten numer na pamięć, tak jak znałem datę jej urodzenia, jej ulubione jedzenie i perfumy, których używała.

Rak trzustki. Szybki, brutalny, bezlitosny. Dali jej sześć miesięcy. Przeżyła cztery. I każdy dzień był gorszy od poprzedniego.

Przez ostatnie kilka dni nie odzywała się już ani słowem. Patrzyła tylko na mnie tymi oczami, które mówiły wszystko, czego nie potrafiła już wyrazić słowami.

Kocham cię. Wybacz mi. Dbaj o siebie. Nie zapomnij o mnie.

Trzymałem ją za rękę – chudą, zimną, prawie przezroczystą. Powiedziałem jej, że będzie dobrze, że damy radę, że lekarstwo zadziała, że ​​Bóg uczyni cud.

Ale oboje znaliśmy prawdę. Oboje wiedzieliśmy, że to kłamstwo. Że zostały nam tylko godziny. Minuty. Sekundy.

A kiedy zamknęła oczy po raz ostatni, kiedy jej ręka zwiotczała w mojej, kiedy monitor przestał wydawać dźwięki i pozostał tylko ten długi, nieprzerwany sygnał dźwiękowy, zostałem tam, siedząc przy jej łóżku, nie wiedząc, jak dalej żyć, nie wiedząc, co robić dalej.

Bo Rebecca nie była tylko moją żoną. Była moim rozumem. Moim kompasem. Moim domem.

Bez niej byłem po prostu człowiekiem czekającym na śmierć, czekającym, aż do mnie zadzwonią, czekającym na ponowne spotkanie z nią.

Otworzyłem oczy, gdy autobus przejeżdżał obok szpitala. Wziąłem głęboki oddech. Powietrze paliło mnie w płucach.

Patrick spojrzał na mnie w lustrze. Tym razem nie odwrócił wzroku. Wpatrywał się we mnie wzrokiem, który rozumiał, wiedział, nie oceniał.

I w tej cichej wymianie zdań zrozumiałem.

Wiedział, że stało się coś złego. Wiedział, że uciekam. Wiedział, że jestem załamana.

Ale on mnie nie osądzał. Nie czuł litości. Po prostu prowadził. Po prostu zawiózł mnie tam, gdzie potrzebowałem. Po prostu dał mi przestrzeń do oddychania.

I jakoś, w sposób, którego nie potrafię wyjaśnić, dało mi to siłę, by iść dalej, by się nie poddać, by nie wyskoczyć z jadącego autobusu i nie pozwolić sobie umrzeć na ulicy.

Autobus jechał dalej. Mijaliśmy dzielnice, których już nie rozpoznawałem. Nowe budynki w miejscu, gdzie kiedyś stały skromne domy. Ogromne supermarkety w miejscu, gdzie kiedyś były osiedlowe sklepiki prowadzone przez ludzi, którzy znali cię z imienia.

Wszystko inne. Wszystko dziwne. Wszystko wrogie, jakby miasto mówiło mi: Już tu nie pasujesz. Twój czas minął. Nie ma już dla ciebie miejsca.

Na jednym z przystanków do dziadka wsiadł mały chłopiec. Chłopiec musiał mieć około ośmiu lat. Rozczochrane włosy, plecak na kółkach. Dziadek musiał mieć około siedemdziesięciu lat – siwe włosy, laska, koszula w kratę.

Chłopiec trzymał go mocno za rękę, jakby nie chciał jej puścić. Pomógł mu wstać.

„Powoli, dziadku. Krok po kroku.”

Znalazł mu miejsce.

„Usiądź tutaj. Ten jest najlepszy.”

Dziadek się uśmiechnął — wdzięczny, kochany, potrzebny.

Przyglądałem się im i poczułem ukłucie w piersi, które niemal mnie zgięło wpół, bo ja też kiedyś byłem tym dziadkiem.

Lily trzymała mnie za rękę. Czekała na mnie po szkole. Przybiegała do mnie, krzycząc: „Dziadku!”. Zadawała mi różne pytania.

„Dziadku, dlaczego niebo jest niebieskie? Dziadku, kiedy pójdziemy do parku? Dziadku, kochasz mnie?”

A ja zawsze odpowiadałem: „Bardziej niż cokolwiek innego na świecie, moja miłości”.

Kiedy to się skończyło? Kiedy przestała na mnie czekać? Kiedy przestała do mnie biec?

A może to Ashley ją ode mnie odepchnęła, powiedziała, żeby mnie nie szukała i powiedziała, że ​​jestem dla niej utrapieniem?

Nie wiedziałem.

I only knew that the last time Lily hugged me had been months ago—four months and some days—and that I missed those hugs more than I could admit. More than I could bear.

The boy and his grandfather got off two stops later. The boy helped him down.

“Careful, Grandpa.”

And I stayed there, watching them walk away, wishing I were that grandfather. Wishing I had a grandchild who loved me, who took care of me, who needed me.

The trip took fifty-three minutes.

I know because I counted every minute, watching the clock on the bus, watching the numbers change. Every minute that passed was a minute farther away from Ashley. A minute farther away from that table where she told me I was extra. A minute closer to… I didn’t know what.

I just knew I had to get away.

The bus slowly emptied. The woman with the baby got off. A noisy group of young people got off—laughing, smelling of alcohol and cheap perfume. A drunk man got on halfway through, stumbling, talking to himself, then disappeared again.

In the end, only Patrick and I remained in that empty bus, crossing the sleeping city.

He slowed down more than normal, as if giving me time, as if waiting for me to change my mind.

He looked at me in the mirror.

“Mr. Edward, are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

His voice held genuine concern. Real, not fake.

I nodded. I tried to smile, but it didn’t come out.

“Yes, Patrick. Thank you. Thank you for everything.”

He didn’t seem convinced. He looked at me like someone looks at a person who’s about to do something irreversible. But he didn’t insist.

He just kept driving slowly, all the way to the end. To the last stop. To where the line ended. To where the city ended.

To where maybe my new life began—or where the one I had ended.

“New Hope. Last stop,” Patrick’s voice sounded tired, hoarse, as if he, too, were reaching the end of something.

He stopped the bus. The engine turned off. The silence was deafening.

I got up slowly, holding on to the seat in front of me. My knees cracked, protested. Everything hurt.

I walked toward the door. Every step was an effort.

Patrick turned in his seat and looked at me with eyes full of something I couldn’t quite identify—pity, respect, fear.

“Mr. Edward, my number is on the company poster. If you need anything, anything at all, call me. Anytime. Seriously.”

I nodded. I wanted to say something. I wanted to thank him. I wanted to tell him he’d been a good student, that I remembered him, that I was glad to see him doing well.

But the words didn’t come out. They got stuck in my throat.

I just nodded again like a fool, like an old man who no longer knows how to speak.

And I got off.

The cold of the night hit my face like a punch. The bus started up behind me. I heard the engine pulling away. I saw the red lights fading into the distance like two red eyes watching me.

And then I was alone in the middle of an empty street. Dark. Cold. With a bag in my hand and nowhere to go except one place.

The only place where maybe I still mattered. The only place where maybe someone still remembered me.

New Hope.

The neighborhood of my youth. The place from when everything was possible, from when I still had dreams.

Uneven cobblestone streets that made you trip. Old streetlights that still worked with yellowish, weak, flickering light. Low houses with rusty bars. Neglected gardens. Barking dogs.

It smelled like bread. Freshly baked bread. That unmistakable smell that takes you straight back to childhood.

And then I remembered Betty Jo’s bakery, where Rebecca bought bread every Sunday. And if Betty was still there, then Oliver was too.

Oliver Stone, my best friend since we were seventeen. Since we were young and stupid and thought we were immortal.

We had lost touch eight years ago, when I moved in with Ashley. When I thought it was the right thing to do. When I still believed my daughter needed me. When I still believed family was forever.

But Oliver lived here, in the house with the blue door. House number 47.

I knew it because I used to live three blocks away, in a house that no longer exists, demolished to make a parking lot.

I walked slowly, dragging my feet, clinging to the bag as if it were a life preserver. The streets were dark, empty. Only the wind, my footsteps, and my breathing could be heard.

But I knew these streets by heart. Every corner. Every tree. Every crack in the pavement.

Because here, I had been happy. Here, I had been young. Here, maybe I could be someone again.

I reached the house. The blue door was more faded now, paler than in my memory. The paint was peeling off in pieces. The windows had white curtains, yellowed by time. There was a light on inside.

Someone was awake. Someone lived there.

I took a deep breath. The air burned my lungs.

I raised my hand. It was trembling.

I knocked once. Softly. Almost inaudible.

I waited.

Nothing.

I knocked again, harder this time. Two dry knocks that echoed in the night.

Silence.

And then I heard slow, dragging footsteps. Someone walking with difficulty. Someone old, like me.

The door opened slowly, creaking.

And there he was.

Oliver. Eighty-one years old, two more than me, but he looked a hundred. White hair, whiter than I remembered. Thick glasses. Old blue striped pajamas, worn and full of holes.

He squinted at me. It took him three seconds, maybe four, like he was trying to place me, searching his memory.

And then he recognized me.

His eyes opened wide. His mouth, too.

But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t ask, “What are you doing here?” He didn’t say, “What happened?” He didn’t ask, “Are you okay?”

He just opened the door wider with that universal gesture of welcome, of acceptance, of brotherhood.

“Come in.”

It wasn’t a question. It was an order. An order full of understanding, of love. The kind of order only old friends give without needing words.

I stepped inside. Crossing the threshold felt like crossing from one world to another—from darkness to light, from cold to warmth, from loneliness to company.

Oliver closed the door behind me carefully, like he was closing the door on the past, like he was protecting the present.

And for the first time in three years, since Rebecca died, I felt like I was home. In a place where I didn’t have to apologize for existing. In a place where I still mattered. In a place where maybe I could live again.

Oliver shut the door and said nothing. He just walked toward the kitchen.

I stayed in the hallway, holding the bag, not knowing what to do.

The house smelled old—of medicine, of stopped time. Everything was the same as forty years ago. The dark wood table. The pendulum clock that no longer worked. The picture of the Virgin on the wall.

But there was something new. Something that hadn’t been there before.

On the table, next to a glass of water, there was a bottle of pills.

Morphine.

I recognized it because Rebecca had taken it at the end.

Oliver came back with two steaming cups of chamomile tea.

“Sit down.”

His voice sounded tired. More tired than I remembered.

I sat. Oliver sat across from me with difficulty. I watched him hold on to the edge of the table and wince in pain.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

He nodded, but he didn’t convince me.

“Oliver… those pills?”

He looked down and sighed.

“Pancreatic cancer. Stage four. I’ve got three months left. Maybe four if I’m lucky.”

I felt like I’d been punched in the chest.

“What?” My voice came out broken.

Oliver took a sip of tea.

“I was diagnosed six months ago. I didn’t want to tell anyone. What for? There’s nothing to be done anymore.”

I stayed silent, looking at him. And then I understood.

My only friend was also dying, and I hadn’t even known.

I stared at him—Oliver, my friend, the one who taught me to play chess when we were seventeen, the one who stood beside me the day I got married, the one who cried with me when Rebecca died.

And now he was telling me he was dying, and I hadn’t been there. I hadn’t known. I hadn’t been able to say goodbye.

“Oliver, forgive me.”

He shook his head.

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“I should’ve been there.”

“You’re here now,” he said quietly. “And that’s the only thing that matters.”

I wiped my eyes, but the tears kept coming, because I was losing everything—Rebecca, Ashley, Oliver—and I didn’t know how to keep losing and still stay standing.

“Why didn’t you call me?” I asked, anger and pain tangled together.

Oliver looked at me.

“I did call you. Four months ago. Ashley answered. I told her I needed to talk to you, that it was urgent.” He stopped. Took a breath. “She told me, ‘Oliver, my dad can’t be hanging around with old friends anymore. He’s sick in the head. If you call again, I’m going to report you for harassment.’”

I felt something break inside me.

“What?”

Oliver nodded.

“I asked her to tell you I’d called. She laughed and hung up.”

I put my hands over my face. I couldn’t breathe.

Ashley had not only humiliated me. She’d cut my last tie to the world, to my past, to my life.

“I tried calling two more times,” Oliver went on. “She always answered. The third time, she threatened to block the number.”

He set his cup on the table. His hands were trembling.

“Edward, your daughter didn’t just kick you out of her house. She erased you from your life.”

And then something inside me exploded.

I stood up so fast the chair fell backward.

“She had no right!” I shouted. My voice sounded hoarse, desperate. “I took care of her. I gave her everything.”

Oliver said nothing. He just looked at me with that look people have when they truly understand pain—because they’ve lived it, too.

I paced in circles, hands on my head, breathing hard.

“Why? Why did she do this to me?”

Oliver got up slowly and came toward me. He placed a hand on my shoulder.

“Because tired people become cruel, Edward. And your daughter is tired. But that justifies nothing.”

I shook my head.

“I never hurt her. I never asked her for anything.”

Oliver squeezed my shoulder.

“I know. But sometimes people don’t need reasons to reject you. They just need space. And you occupied that space.”

I felt hot, angry tears rolling down my face.

“Rebecca was right,” I whispered.

Oliver frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“Before she died, she told me Ashley was afraid of getting old. That one day she’d be afraid of me. I didn’t believe her. I thought it was the grief talking. But she was right.”

Oliver let go of my shoulder and sat down again.

“Edward, there’s something else you have to know.”

I looked at him.

“What else can there be?”

He took a deep breath.

“They don’t talk to me either. It’s been three years since I heard from my kids. When I told them I had cancer, they said, ‘Dad, you’re already old. It’s natural. Don’t call us anymore with those dramas.’”

I felt a lump in my throat.

“Oliver…”

He raised his hand.

“Don’t pity me. I’m telling you this because you need to know something. You’re not alone. There are thousands of old people like us—kicked out, forgotten, waiting to die without bothering anyone.”

And in that old kitchen, with that dying friend, I understood the most painful truth of all.

Getting old is becoming invisible.

I let myself fall into the chair. I put my hands on the table and cried—not with silent tears, but with sobs, with groans, with my mouth open and my chest heaving. I cried for Ashley, for Oliver, for Rebecca, for me, for all the old people in the world who die alone, feeling like nuisances.

Oliver didn’t console me. He didn’t tell me everything was going to be okay.

He just stayed there, sitting across from me, waiting.

Because sometimes the best company is silence.

When I finally stopped crying, when I had no tears left, Oliver said, “There’s a bed in the back room. The sheets are clean. Sleep. Tomorrow we keep going.”

I got up as best I could. I grabbed the bag and walked toward the back room.

It was small. A bed, a closet, a window.

I sat on the bed. The springs creaked. I looked at the ceiling. There were damp spots and a long crack.

And then I thought, Why go on? Why wake up tomorrow if I matter to no one? If my own daughter hates me? If my best friend is dying? If my wife is dead?

What for?

I lay down. I closed my eyes and wished not to wake up. I wished sleep would take everything away—the pain, the shame, the loneliness.

But it didn’t happen.

I just slept.

And I dreamed of Rebecca, of when we were still young, when we were still happy.

I woke up with a start. I don’t know what time it was. It was dark. I heard a noise, a thud, coming from the living room.

I got up and left the room.

Oliver was on the floor. He had tripped. He was trying to get up but couldn’t.

“Oliver!”

I ran to him. I helped him up. He weighed so little. Too little.

“I’m fine,” he murmured.

But he wasn’t fine. He was shaking, sweating.

I took him to the sofa and sat him down.

“Does it hurt?”

He nodded.

“It always hurts.”

I went for the pills, gave them to him with water, and waited.

Little by little, the shaking stopped. Oliver took a deep breath.

“Thank you.”

I shook my head.

“Don’t thank me. You opened the door for me when no one else did.”

We stayed there in silence, Oliver on the sofa, me sitting on the floor next to him.

And then he said, “Edward, don’t give up.”

I looked at him.

“Why not?”

He smiled—a sad smile.

“Because giving up is proving the people who kicked you out were right. It’s telling them, ‘You were right. I am worth nothing.’”

I swallowed hard.

“But what if it’s true? What if I really am worth nothing?”

Oliver stared at me.

“You are worth it. You’re worth it because you’re here. Because you helped me up. Because you still cry. People who are worth nothing don’t feel anymore. You still feel. And that means you’re still alive.”

I didn’t answer, but his words stayed with me like a seed planted in dry earth.

I went back to the room. I lay down again. But this time, I didn’t wish to die.

I only wished to wake up and find a reason to keep going.

A reason that wasn’t Ashley or Rebecca or the past.

A new reason.

My reason.

I closed my eyes and slept deeply, without dreams.

When I woke up, there was light. Oliver was alive. And so was I.

For now, that was enough.

I woke up with the sun on my face. Everything hurt—my back, my knees, my soul. But I was alive.

I got up and went to the bathroom. I washed my face with cold water and looked in the mirror.

I was still an old man, but I no longer looked like a defeated old man. Just a tired one.

I left the room. Oliver was already awake. He was in the kitchen preparing coffee. He moved slowly, holding on to the furniture.

“Good morning,” I said.

He turned around and smiled.

“Good morning. Did you sleep?”

I nodded.

“Better than I expected.”

He poured two cups.

“Good. Today we’re going to the bakery. I need bread and you need air.”

I didn’t argue. I just nodded. He was right.

We had breakfast in silence. Toast with butter. Bitter coffee. Simple. Perfect.

When we finished, Oliver got up.

“Let’s go.”

We went outside. The street was quiet. The sun was still low. It was cool.

We walked three blocks—Oliver with his cane, me at his side, ready to catch him if he tripped.

We reached the bakery—Joe’s Bakery. The sign was worn.

We went in and there was Betty, a woman of about sixty, with a white apron and a warm smile.

She saw us come in and froze.

“Mr. Edward.”

Her voice held surprise, disbelief, and something else—something I couldn’t identify in that moment. Later I understood it was pity.

“It’s me, Betty,” I said.

She came closer, but she didn’t hug me the way I’d expected. She just looked me up and down.

“What are you doing around here?” Her tone was strange. Careful. Like someone walking on broken glass.

“He’s staying with me for a few days,” Oliver cut in.

Betty nodded slowly. She kept looking at me and then asked, “Mr. Edward, does your daughter know you’re here?”

I tensed.

“No. Why?”

Betty exchanged a look with Oliver.

“She came here like two years ago. She asked about you. I told her I hadn’t seen you.”

I frowned.

“Ashley came here?”

Betty nodded.

“She said you’d escaped. That you were senile. That if I saw you, I should call her immediately.”

I felt something cold run down my back.

“What?”

Betty looked down.

“I didn’t believe her. You never seemed senile to me. But she insisted. She left me her number. She told me you were dangerous, that you could get lost, that you had to be returned.”

Oliver squeezed my arm, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

“That was two years ago,” I murmured.

Betty nodded.

“Yes. You still lived with her then, didn’t you?”

I nodded.

And then I understood.

Ashley had wanted me gone for years. She’d already been planning how to get rid of me. She was just waiting for the right moment.

And that moment arrived last Saturday, when she finally told me to leave. When she finally executed the plan she’d been building for years.

“Mr. Edward, are you okay?” Betty asked.

I wasn’t okay. But I nodded.

“Yes. Thank you for telling me.”

She sighed.

“I didn’t know whether to tell you. But I thought… I thought you had to know.”

She bagged up the bread. Oliver paid. We left.

We walked in silence. I was processing.

Ashley hadn’t kicked me out on impulse. It wasn’t just stress in the moment. It was planned. Calculated. She’d wanted me gone for years.

And she’d finally done it.

And I, like a fool, had thought she still loved me. That I was still her dad.

But no. I was just a problem she’d been postponing until she couldn’t anymore.

We got back to the house. We went in. I sat on the sofa and put my head in my hands.

Oliver sat next to me.

“Edward…”

“Don’t say anything,” I murmured. “Just don’t say anything.”

We stayed like that in silence until Oliver’s phone rang.

He looked at the screen and frowned.

“It’s a number I don’t know.”

He answered.

“Hello?”

I heard a female voice on the other end. Young. Desperate.

Oliver looked at me.

“It’s for you.”

He handed me the phone.

“Hello?”

“Grandpa.”

It was Lily, my granddaughter. But her voice sounded strange. Broken.

“Lily, what’s wrong?”

“Grandpa, I ran away.”

I felt my heart stop.

“What?”

“I ran away from home. I can’t stand Mom anymore. I hate her, Grandpa. I hate her.”

She was crying.

I stood up.

“Lily, where are you?”

“At the bus terminal. I took money from my piggy bank. I bought a ticket. I’m coming there.”

“How did you know where I am?”

“I asked Patrick. The driver of the 47. He told me.”

I closed my eyes.

“Lily, you have to go back.”

“No, I’m not going back. Mom hit me, Grandpa. She hit me because I defended you.”

I felt pure rage.

“She hit you?”

“Yes. I told her you were a good man, that she had no right to kick you out. And she hit me. She told me I was ungrateful. That I knew nothing about life.”

Her voice broke.

“If you’re listening to my story, leave me a comment telling me where you’re watching from. Sometimes I need to know I’m not alone in this,” I thought, echoing the words I’d say later to strangers.

“Lily, did the bus already leave?”

“Yes. I arrive in an hour.”

I looked at Oliver. He nodded as if to say, Let her come.

I sighed.

“Okay, come. But later, we talk to your mom.”

“I don’t want to talk to her, Grandpa. No. She kicked you out. She humiliated you, and I’m never going to forgive her.”

She hung up.

I stayed there with the phone in my hand.

Oliver looked at me.

“What happened?”

“Lily ran away. She’s coming here. Ashley hit her.”

Oliver closed his eyes.

“My God.”

I nodded.

“This is going to get worse.”

An hour later, Lily arrived. She knocked on the door. I opened it.

And there she was. My granddaughter. Sixteen years old. Skinny. Messy hair. A backpack on her back and a bruise on her arm.

I hugged her tight. She clung to me and cried.

“Grandpa, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize, my love. You did nothing wrong.”

“I should’ve defended you sooner. I should’ve said something when she kicked you out.”

“Lily, you don’t have to defend me. I’m the adult.”

She pulled away and looked at me with eyes full of tears.

“But she has no right, Grandpa. She has no right to treat you like that.”

I nodded.

“I know. But it’s over. And now you’re here. And that’s what matters.”

Lily sat next to me, staring.

“Grandpa, do you know what the worst part was?”

I shook my head.

“The worst part wasn’t that Mom kicked you out. It was that I said nothing. I was in my room. I heard everything—the dinner, the laughter, what she told you—and I didn’t go downstairs. I didn’t defend you. I stayed upstairs crying, hating myself for being a coward.”

I grabbed her hand.

“Lily, no—”

“Grandpa, let me finish. When you left, I went downstairs. I asked Mom where you were and she said, ‘He left and he’s not coming back. He finally understood that he’s extra here.’ And I told her, ‘You’re extra too, Mom. But no one has the courage to tell you.’”

She swallowed.

“And she hit me. For the first time in my life, she hit me.”

She cried. I did, too.

Lily greeted Oliver. He welcomed her with a gentle smile.

“Welcome, child.”

She smiled shyly and sat on the sofa.

I made tea for her. I gave her bread. She ate slowly.

Then Oliver’s phone rang again.

This time, the name on the screen was clear.

Ashley.

Oliver looked at me.

“Should I answer?”

I took a deep breath.

“Yes. Answer.”

He picked up and put it on speaker.

Ashley’s voice burst into the room—screaming, desperate, furious.

“Where is my daughter, Oliver? If my father has her there, I swear I’m calling the police. Give her back to me right now!”

Lily tensed. I put a hand on her shoulder and spoke, my voice calm but firm.

“Ashley, it’s me.”

Silence on the other end.

Then her voice, broken and rabid.