Catherine kissed her head. “You always have, sweetheart.”
We took the photo right after, the three of us smiling. Amanda in the middle, holding both our hands.
She looked so happy.
I wondered when that changed.
I swiped again, and my chest tightened.
February 14th, 2021. Phoenix.
This wasn’t a photo. It was a memory.
Banner Desert Medical Center. ICU. Fluorescent lights. Machines beeping. The smell of disinfectant.
Catherine was on the bed, eyes closed, peaceful, but she wasn’t sleeping. The doctors had already told me. The accident on I 10 had been too severe. She’d already passed, but the machines were still running until I could say goodbye.
Amanda stood beside me, gripping my arm. Twenty-nine years old, but looking like a child. Small. Scared.
“Dad, I’m so sorry. It’s not your fault. I should have been here more, called more. I should have—”
I turned to her. She was sobbing.
“It’s not your fault.”
She threw her arms around me, and we stood there in that cold room while the machines beeped their indifferent rhythm.
“I’m going to take care of you,” she whispered. “Just like you took care of Mom and me. I’ll be there for you, Dad. I swear.”
I held her tighter because I believed her.
I closed the photo app.
Three memories. Three promises.
You protect me from bad guys. I’m going to make you proud. I’ll take care of you, Dad.
I stared at my phone, vision blurring.
What happened to that little girl who thought I was Superman. The one who cried at graduation and promised to make me proud. The one who held me in the hospital and swore she’d take care of me.
When did she become someone who could steal everything I had?
I’d kept that drawing. For years, it hung in my office at the bank. Customers would ask about it, and I’d say, “That’s my daughter. She thinks I’m Superman.”
And I’d feel proud.
After Catherine passed, I framed it and put it on my dresser next to a photo from Amanda’s graduation.
You’re my hero.
I wasn’t anybody’s hero anymore. Just a 58-year-old man robbed by the person he loved most.
I sat there staring at the photo on my screen. Amanda at eight holding up her drawing, grinning.
“My daddy, the hero.”
I closed my eyes.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” I whispered to the empty kitchen. “I’m so sorry.”
I didn’t know who I was apologizing to.
Amanda. Catherine. Myself.
Maybe all three.
The phone rang.
I looked down.
James Maxwell Law Firm.
“Mr. Hughes. This is James Maxwell. Can you come to my office today at 2:00?”
I looked at the clock.
9:15.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
I sat at the kitchen table for a moment, phone in my hand.
2:00. James Maxwell’s office.
I had almost five hours.
I looked at my calendar. Sunday morning. I was supposed to volunteer at the Phoenix Public Library, financial literacy class. I’d been teaching it every other Sunday for two years now.
Today’s topic: how to spot elder financial abuse.
The irony would have been funny if it wasn’t so painful.
I grabbed my keys and headed out the door.
By 10:00, I was pulling into the library parking lot. The building was quiet on Sunday mornings. Just a handful of people browsing the shelves, a few kids in the children’s section.
I made my way to the community room and started setting up. Laptop, projector, handout stacked on the table by the door.
Slide one: Elder financial abuse. Warning signs.
I stared at the screen and felt something twist in my chest.
The seniors would start arriving at 11:30. I had an hour and a half to pull myself together.
I sat down in one of the empty chairs and closed my eyes, but all I could see was Amanda.
2021, the year Catherine passed away.
