Once I made this call, there was no going back. No pretending it was a misunderstanding. No hoping Amanda would fix it on her own. This was me admitting that my daughter had stolen from me, and I had to stop her.
I dialed the number.
It rang twice before a woman answered.
“James Maxwell Law Firm. How can I help you?”
I took a breath.
“My name is Warren Hughes,” I said. “I need help.”
My voice cracked just a little.
“My daughter stole from me.”
The receptionist said someone would call back within the hour. I hung up and checked the time.
9:00.
I was supposed to teach at the library at noon.
I wasn’t going.
I sat at the kitchen table, phone in hand. The house was too quiet. It had been that way for three years, but today the silence felt heavier.
Without thinking, I opened my photos app and scrolled.
Catherine at the Grand Canyon. Amanda’s college graduation. A desert sunset.
And then I stopped.
A picture from the summer of 1999. Amanda, eight years old, sitting at this table with crayons scattered everywhere. She was holding up a drawing, grinning with a gaptothed smile.
My daddy the hero.
I remembered that day. Summer 1999, Scottsdale. Late afternoon, Arizona heat, thick as syrup. I’d just gotten home from the bank, still in my suit, sweat sticking to my shirt.
Amanda sat at the kitchen table bent over a piece of yellow construction paper. Catherine was at the stove, making spaghetti, humming.
“Daddy, look.”
Amanda held up her drawing. A stick figure with a cape and a big W on his chest. Me flying through the air holding a little girl’s hand.
“You’re Superman,” she said, beaming.
“And I’m your sidekick,” Catherine laughed. “Your daughter thinks you’re a superhero. Don’t let it go to your head.”
I knelt beside Amanda, loosening my tie.
“This is amazing. Can I keep it?”
She nodded, serious.
“You have to, because you protect me from bad guys.”
I hugged her, breathing in strawberry shampoo.
“I’ll always protect you, sweetheart. I promise.”
Promise. Promise.
She smiled and went back to coloring.
Catherine caught my eye from across the room. Her smile said something I didn’t understand then.
Don’t make promises you can’t keep.
But I thought I could keep that promise forever.
I swiped to the next photo.
June 2009. Amanda’s high school graduation. Desert Vista High School lawn. Amanda in cap and gown, diploma in hand, looking too grown up. Catherine and I stood on either side of her, arms around her shoulders.
She was crying.
“Thank you for everything,” she’d said, voicebreaking. “I know I wasn’t always easy, but I love you, both of you. I’m going to make you proud. I promise.”
I’d laughed. “You already do.”
“I’m serious, Dad.”
