Page 2 of Small Town Daddy

And it all came from Dad, and, I guess, Roald Dahl.

The grandfather clock ticked softly, its steady rhythm a counterpoint to my racing heart. I glanced at Dad's armchair, half-expecting to see him there—glasses perched on his nose, completely engrossed in his latest novel. He’d been a Stephen King fan. Probably where I got my love of horror.

I had such a clear mental image of him. Smiling.

"Shit," I muttered, blinking back tears. This was going to be harder than I'd imagined.

My gaze landed on a small porcelain teacup perched on a nearby shelf. The sight of it hit me like a punch to the gut, transporting me back in time.

I was eight again, twirling in my favorite princess dress. Dad wore that ridiculous oversize top hat, the one that always made me giggle.

"More tea, Your Majesty?" he'd asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

I'd lifted my chin regally. "If you please, kind sir."

Dad raised his tiny cup. "To the queen of the manor!"

The memory was so vivid I could almost hear his voice, smell the earl grey steeping in delicate china cups.

"We were happy then," I whispered, running a finger along the teacup's smooth rim. "Before..."

I swallowed hard, unable to finish the thought. Before Mom died. Before everything changed.

I don’t know why I hadn’t visited Dad since college. Maybe I’d been trying to prove that I was a grown-up, and that I could take care of myself. Maybe I was just trying to avoid this house, and all the feelings caught up in it.

I think he sensed this, because he’d come to visit me in the city pretty often. To begin with, he’d ask when I was going to come home and visit, but as time passed, he stopped pushing for it.

Then, I missed my chance. I’d never visit him at home again.

The weight of loss crashed over me, and I sank onto the window seat. Rain lashed against the pane. I wrapped my arms around myself, desperate for the comfort I'd always found in Dad's embrace.

"I miss you so much," I choked out, my voice barely audible in the empty room.

Tears flowed freely now, hot and insistent. I didn't try to stop them. What was the point? There was no one here to see, no one to be strong for.

My mind drifted to those dark days after Mom's funeral. The house had felt like this then, too – hollow, echoing with ghosts. Dad had retreated into himself, into the bottle. I'd watched helplessly as the light faded from his eyes, as laughter became a distant memory.

"Fuck," I muttered, swiping at my cheeks. This wasn't helping. Sitting here, drowning in memories—it would swallow me whole if I let it.

I stood abruptly, grabbing my purse. "Get it together, Lucy," I told myself sternly. "You can't fall apart now."

All of a sudden, I had an overwhelming urge to get out of here. It felt like I was suffocating.

An idea hit me. A friendly face, someone I hadn’t seen for a long time. My best friend from school, Marie. These days, shemanaged The Daily Grind, the coffee shop in town. The idea of Marie's warm smile, of the comforting bustle of her coffee shop, pulled at me. I needed noise, life—anything to drown out the deafening silence of this house.

I yanked open the front door, wincing as cold rain pelted my face. The walk to The Daily Grind wasn't far, but in this weather, it might as well have been miles. Still, the thought of staying put was unbearable.

"Here goes nothing," I muttered, stepping out into the storm.

***

The bell above the door jingled as I stepped into The Daily Grind, shaking raindrops from my hair. A wave of warmth washed over me, carrying the rich scent of coffee and something sweet—cinnamon rolls, maybe? My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since . . . when?

I breathed deep, letting the familiar aromas soothe my frayed nerves. The place hadn't changed much. Mismatched chairs, local art on exposed brick walls, that same old creaky floorboard near the counter. It felt like coming home, in a way the actual house hadn't.

Of course, there was a new manager.

My eyes swept the room, taking in the clusters of people bent over steaming mugs, lost in conversation. For a moment, I felt like an outsider looking in. Did I still belong here?

---