Page 22 of The Daddy’s Girl

“Good point. I will be patient.”

“Good,” I reply as I turn the water off.

He grows silent. I wonder if he’s picturing me naked. And if he is…does the thought disgust him or turn him on?

You’re dreaming, Amelia.

He clears his throat again. “Get some sleep now. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

It’s as if someone lays a blanket of sadness over my shoulders. The thought of saying goodbye to him, of knowing he’ll be chatting with someone else hurts. But that’s all the more reason to do this. To move on.

“Good night, old man,” I say, standing naked and dripping in the shower as I hold my phone in my hand.

His voice is like soothing silk, my own security blanket as he softly replies through the phone line. “Good night, Trouble.”

Rule #6: A gentleman always brings flowers.

Matis

The sky is cloudy as I walk through the courtyard, a paper-wrapped bouquet of lilies in my arms.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Moreau,” the nurse at the front desk greets me as I pass through the doors of the building.

“Bonjour,” I reply with a polite smile. “Is she in her room?”

“Oui,” she replies. “She doesn’t want to come out.”

“Merci,” I say after signing my name on the guest roster on the counter. As I make my way to room number thirty-seven, I make a plan to get her out of her quarters today.

Reaching her door, I stop and take two long, deep breaths.

Then, pasting the smile back on my face, I open the door. She’s sitting by the window, slumped in a wheelchair as she stares blankly out at the garden. There’s a sweater hanging from her shoulder as if she was either putting it on or taking it off and forgot what she was doing midway through.

“Bonjour, Estelle,” I say with a grin as I carry the flowers over to the table.

Her eyes trail lazily toward me, blinking repeatedly as she works to recognize me. She used to fake it. For a while, she pretended I was just a nurse or orderly and acted like she knew exactly who I was. Of course, she didn’t. She hasn’t recognized my face in nearly two years.

But now…she doesn’t bother faking it. She only stares. Blinks. Stays quiet. Lost to the world in her mind.

“I brought you some flowers,” I say as I pick up the vase near the window. Her eyes follow me as I take it to the kitchenette, tossing the dead lilies in the trash and replacing them with new ones. As I pour water into the vase, our eyes meet, and I shoot her a warm smile.

My gaze catches on the photos of us in frames all over her room. Grainy black-and-white pictures, moments frozen in time. In every single one, we’re happy.

“I thought we could go outside today,” I say.

Slowly, she shakes her head. “Non,” she mumbles to herself.

Swallowing down my disappointment, I carry the vase over to the window and set it down on the table. Then I kneel in front of her, letting her stare at my face in hopes that somewhere deep inside, it brings her comfort. Even if her brain can’t comprehend who I am, then surely her heart knows.

“S’il te plaît, Maman. Let’s go for a walk. Just you and me.”

Her brows furrow, and I see her throat move as she swallows. I’ve upset her by calling her my mother. When the dementia first set in, I used to fight to make her remember me. I spent most of my time convincing her that I was her son.

Her one and only, as she used to say.

Now I don’t bother. She doesn’t need to remember me for me to love her.

“D’accord,” she mumbles under her breath, relenting to my request.