For the first few months, Amanda had been there. She called two, three times a week, stopped by the house on weekends, helped me sort through Catherine’s things—clothes, books, the little ceramic birds she’d collected over the years.
“You don’t have to do this alone, Dad,” Amanda had said, sitting on the living room floor surrounded by cardboard boxes. “I’m here.”
And she was for a while.
2000 to 22, the year I retired. The calls started tapering off. Once a week, maybe.
Amanda was busy. Marketing coordinator at some firm in Scottsdale, pulling in $65,000 a year, always stressed about rent, car payments, credit cards.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called more, Dad. Work’s just been insane.”
“I understand, sweetheart. You’ve got your own life.”
I meant it. I didn’t want to be the clingy father, the one who made his daughter feel guilty for living her own life.
So I didn’t push. I just waited for the phone to ring.
2023, the year she moved away.
In March, Amanda signed a lease on a place in Scottsdale. $1,650 a month for a one-bedroom, 15 miles from my house, but it might as well have been across the country.
“It’s closer to work, Dad, and the neighborhood’s really nice.”
“That’s great, honey. I’m happy for you.”
The calls dropped to once or twice a month. Sometimes she’d pick up when I called. Most times she wouldn’t.
Can’t talk right now at work. I’ll call you back.
She never did.
The house got quieter.
I started eating dinner in front of the TV. Frozen meals, canned soup. I’d sit on the couch with Catherine’s photo on the mantle across from me, and I’d talk to her.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong,” I’d say. “I don’t know why she won’t call.”
Catherine’s smile never answered.
Frank Donovan, my best friend from my days at the bank, stopped by once or twice a month. We’d sit on the back patio, drink beer, talk about the Diamondbacks, anything except what was really going on.
“You should call her,” Frank said one evening in June. “Just pick up the phone.”
“I do call. She doesn’t answer.”
“Then drive over there. Show up.”
“I’m not going to ambush my own daughter, Frank.”
He’d shrugged. “Suit yourself. But sitting here waiting isn’t working either.”
He was right.
But I didn’t listen.
Early 2024, the year everything changed.
By spring, Amanda and I were barely speaking. A text here and there, short, distant.
Happy birthday, Dad. Thanks, sweetheart. Love you.
No phone call. No visit.
I told myself it was normal. She was 32 years old. She had her own life, her own problems. I couldn’t expect her to drop everything for her widowed father.
But the loneliness was suffocating.
And then, in July, she called out of the blue. First time in weeks.
“Hey, Dad. Quick question.”
My heart lifted just hearing her voice.
“How much is your rental property worth? The one in Tempe.”
I’d been so happy to hear her that I didn’t hesitate.
“About $578,000, I think. Maybe a little more. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just curious. Brandon and I were talking about real estate investments.” She rushed the words. “Brandon, my boyfriend. I’ll tell you about him later. I have to run. Love you.”
And she hung up.
I should have asked more questions. Who was this Brandon. How long had they been dating. Why was she suddenly interested in my rental property.
But I didn’t.
Because I was just so damn grateful she’d called.
I opened my eyes and looked around the empty community room.
I’d been so lonely that I hadn’t seen what was happening. I hadn’t seen her pulling away or circling closer, depending on how you looked at it.
I’d missed every single sign.
