Page 8 of Since the Day We Left

As Arthur went on, his shoulders gradually relaxed and Miles guided him toward a kitchen chair. Once he was seated, Miles quickly swept up the glass.

His dad smiled. “It was perfect.”

That smile—the same one from Little League games and high school graduation, the one that had somehow held steady at his mom’s funeral—was still there, even as the rest of him slipped away.

Miles nodded and grabbed the kettle. “Let’s have some tea instead.”

While the kettle heated, Miles wiped coffee grounds from the counter, keeping one eye on his dad. The hardest part of loving someone, he realized, wasn’t the sacrifice; it was watching them search for pieces of themselves they might never find again.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said after a long silence. “It’s happening more often, isn’t it?”

Miles paused. “We’re figuring it out, Dad. One day at a time.”

“Your mom was always better at this—knowing what to say.” Arthur glanced at the painting. “She would’ve helped me remember.”

The kettle whistled, and Miles busied himself with mugs and tea bags, grateful for the distraction from the sheen in his eyes. His dad—who had taught him to catch a football, to change a tire, to get back up after falling—now looked at him with such trust and uncertainty that, despite all the research he’d done and the professionals he’d talked to, Miles still felt completely unprepared.

“You’re doing fine.” He placed a mug of tea in front of his dad, along with a sketchpad and pencil from the table. “How about you show me how to draw the cove?”

Arthur picked up the pencil and, with sure strokes, he sketched the shoreline, the rocks, and the meeting of sky and sea.

While his dad worked away, Miles slipped onto the back porch for a moment alone. The ocean stretched endlessly before him. He leaned against the railing, breathing in the salty air, trying to loosen the tightness in his chest.

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through the string of texts he’d sent within ten minutes of Mrs. Winters’ call.

Sorry, Mrs. Hendricks. Family emergency. Can’t mow this week.

Hey Jim, need to raincheck on fixing that deck. My dad needs me in Hadley Cove.

Megan, can you cover my dog walking route for a few days? Family stuff.

Just three texts and he was free. No plants to water. No pet to feed. No one waiting for him. Three years of drifting. Running. Remembering the fire climbing those walls—and how, for the first time in his life, he had frozen.

Miles let out a breath, shaking his head like he could clear it. The screen door creaked behind him.

“The light’s better in the morning,” Arthur said, stepping onto the porch with his sketchpad. “That’s when I like to paint the cove. The way the sun hits the water, it’s like seeing the world being born again.”

Miles studied his dad’s sketch—lines drawn by a man trying to hold on to what time had already erased. “It’s good, Dad. Really good—the rocks, the shore, the dunes.”

“Your mom loved this place.” Arthur didn’t look away from the horizon. “That’s why I bought the house. To keep her close.”

Miles swallowed, then nodded toward the door. “Come on, Dad. Let’s eat.”

Back inside, Miles pulled open the fridge. Wilted spinach. The last two end pieces of wholegrain bread, left in an untied bag. A half-used lemon in the crisper had shriveled and hardened. The almond milk—still technically in date—smelled questionable. Digging through the pantry, he found a can of chickpeas pushed to the back.

Mental note: First thing tomorrow, groceries.

He drained and rinsed the chickpeas, then mashed them with a fork while heating a pan he found after opening three different cabinets. As the chickpeas sizzled, he tossed in the spinach and seasoned with the few spices he could find in his dad’s pantry.

“Hope you still like chickpea scramble.” Miles set down two mismatched plates—one cracked, the other too small.

Arthur watched as Miles sat down across from him. “I’ve painted the cove a thousand times,” he said between bites. “Morning, evening, summer, winter. It’s never the same, not really.” He pointed toward the living room with his fork, dropping food onto his shirt without noticing. “That one store in town used to sell them. People like beach paintings.”

“They’re good, Dad. More than good.” Miles meant it. Despite everything, his dad’s talent remained intact.

“It’s been a while since I went down there,” Arthur said, brushing his sleeve across his mouth. “My knees aren’t what they used to be.”

“Maybe we could go together. When you feel up to it.” Miles stacked their plates, noting the half-eaten meal. “Let me finish unpacking, and we’ll figure out what to do today.”

---