I picked at my food, pushing it around the plate. My daughter called later, checking in as she did every night.
“Did you eat, Dad?” she asked, concern lacing her words.
“Yeah, I did,” I lied, not wanting her to worry more than she already did.
“I miss her too,” she said softly, and I could hear the pain in her voice.
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
After we hung up, I sat in silence, absorbing the quiet that filled the room.
The young man with plum-colored hair returned the next evening, another delivery in hand. This time, he lingered a bit longer, perhaps sensing the loneliness that surrounded me.
“Food’s good here,” he said, trying to make small talk.
I nodded, appreciating the attempt. “Yeah, it is. Thanks for bringing it by.”
He gave a small wave before heading back to his car, disappearing into the night.
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