Page 1 of Small Town Daddy

Chapter 1

Lucy

Iwas finally home.Shame it didn’t feel like home anymore.

Rain pelted the windshield as I drove into Small Falls. The wipers struggled against the downpour, smearing more than clearing. My knuckles whitened on the wheel.

The old stone bridge over the Blueway River loomed ahead, its familiar arch a gateway to my past. As I crossed, memories flooded back—summer days spent dangling our feet in the cool water below, Dad teaching me to skip stones across the rippling surface.

My chest tightened. I hadn't been back since leaving for college. Now, Dad was gone, and I was returning alone.

Main Street unfurled before me, quaint storefronts lining the way like sentinels. Nostalgia and anxiety churned in my gut.

"Get it together, Lucy," I muttered, gripping the wheel even tighter.

There was the bakery where I'd gotten my first job. The ice cream parlor that made Dad's favorite rocky road. Each landmark intensified the ache of his absence. The Daily Grind coffee shop. Wilkins’ hardware.

All exactly as it had been.

Eventually, I turned onto Maple Lane, heart racing. At the end of my street stood Dad's Victorian house. Once a cheerful blue, the paint was now faded and peeling. The garden had become a wild tangle of bushes and weeds. Number eighteen.

Tears pricked my eyes as I pulled into the driveway. This house held so many memories - movie nights cuddled on the couch, Dad's booming laugh echoing through the rooms. Mom’s pancakes. Her love.

Then, after she died, the love was replaced with grief., and the house felt empty. Of course, dad hadn’t been the same afterward. And my childhood had just kind of stopped. It wasn’t dad’s fault, of course, but being a single dad had been so hard. All his time was taken up with work, and looking after the house. He had no time to play with me.

"Home sweet home," I whispered, my voice cracking.

I sat there a moment, raindrops drumming on the roof. Part of me wanted to throw the car in reverse and speed away. But I couldn't run from this.

Taking a shaky breath, I grabbed my purse and stepped out into the rain. Time to face the past and figure out what comes next.

I rushed to the front door, fumbling with my suitcase and umbrella. The brass key felt cold and unfamiliar in my hand as I jammed it into the lock. It stuck.

"Perfect," I muttered, rain soaking through my jacket. I jiggled the key and jiggled it again, but it wouldn't budge. Frustration bubbled up inside me, threatening to spill over.

A hysterical laugh escaped my lips. "Welcome home, Lucy. You’re the responsible adult now."

My hands shook as I tried again, memories of easier homecomings flashing through my mind. Dad waiting with open arms, the smell of his famous chili wafting from the kitchen. Now there was only silence and the relentless patter of rain.

Taking a deep breath, I gave the key one last twist. It finally turned with a reluctant click. Of course, there was a knack to it. A knack I’d forgotten with the passing of time.

I pushed the door open, greeted by the familiar creak of hinges. The scent hit me immediately—aged wood, vanilla, and a hint of Dad's cologne. My throat tightened as I set down my suitcase.

There was more to the smell, of course. A musty, dusty, damp note. The smell of absence.

"Dad?" I called out instinctively, then felt foolish. Of course, there was no answer.

I took a tentative step inside, my shoes leaving damp imprints on the dusty hardwood floor. The house felt frozen in time, a snapshot of the life I'd left behind. Family photos still lined the mantelpiece, smiling faces oblivious to the passage of years.

"God, what am I doing here?" I whispered, wrapping my arms around myself. The weight of memories pressed in from all sides, threatening to suffocate me.

Of course, I knew exactly why I was here. Dad had left me the place in his will. It wasn’t exactly a surprise, I was his only surviving relative, and now I was back to decide what to do. I’d left behind a decently-paid job at an accountancy firm in the city to come back.

I needed to renovate the place—that much I knew. Then, most likely, I’d sell it, and use the money as a deposit for my own place in the city. I’d go back to something else in accounting,and life would go on. Small Falls would once again drift into my memory.

I wandered into the living room, my fingers trailing over the worn fabric of the couch. How many nights had Dad and I curled up here, lost in the pages of our favorite books?

He’d been the one to instill a love of reading and writing in me. When I was a kid, whenever anyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d always say “Writer. Probably horror.” It wasn’t even a question for me, I just knew.

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