Page 5

Asking means he’s having a good day. Good days used to be rare—until he came here.

"I brought the pecan rolls he likes," I say, and she smiles and buzzes me through.

Brookhaven always feels like a warm exhale when you walk through its doors. Fresh-cut flowers on the reception desk, soft music through the ceiling speakers, nurses who genuinely smile when family shows up. This isn’t the place where people disappear.

This is the best facility my father has been in since the accident three years ago. A traumatic brain injury that stole whole chapters of his memory and took his body down with it. He had to learn to walk again. For a long time, the good days were so rare I stopped expecting them.

But here? Here they’ve been multiplying. His occupational therapist, Lena, sat me down last month and told me something no one at the other three facilities ever had. She said my father has come a long way—real, measurable progress. Not just holding steady, but actively improving. His neural pathways are rebuilding, not maintaining. Two to three more years at Brookhaven, and he could move into his own apartment with weekly check-ins instead of round-the-clock care.

But only here. Only with this team. Only with the people who figured out how to reach him when everyone else had given up.

Which means I need to keep paying for Brookhaven.

Which means I need to keep my job.

Which means I need to figure out Everett Kauffman’s goddamn coffee order.

I walk by the plaque on the wall before I turn into my father’s room. Kauffman Family Wing. The Kauffman's, in all their philanthropy, are one of the largest donors to the Brookhaven Memory Center.

I find my dad in his room by the window. His right side is still weak—probably always will be, which is hard to witness since my father was a foreman for the railroad. Tall, broad shoulders, barrel chest, a laugh that used his entire body and sounded like Santa Claus... larger than life in every way. He used to carry me on his shoulders when we'd go for walks in the park with my mom. To see him like this is hard. At least he’s no longer bound to a wheelchair 24/7. When he sees me, his whole face changes.

"There’s my girl." His smile makes every exhausting choice I’ve ever made feel worth it. "Did you bring my favorite?"

"The big one’s yours. They just released their fall flavors so these have a pumpkin spice icing," I open the bakery box.

"You spoil me rotten."

"Get used to it. I will always take care of you," I tell him. Not just because of the insurmountable guilt I feel for him being in here, but because he's my father and the only parent I have left.

He studies me while he eats. My father does this thing on his good days where the fog clears completely, and he’s fully present—the man he was before the accident. The man who remembers everything and sees too much.

"You look tired," he says.

"I’m fine."

"Liar." He chews his pecan roll like a man who has earned every single bite. "How’s work? How’s the new boss?"

A scoff escapes before I can stop it.

My father doesn’t need to know that Everett is a humorless, emotionless robot of a billionaire with more money than charm. If Everett were a color, grey would be offended by the association.

He might be brilliant in business—I’ve heard that more times than I can count—but the man’s social skills are alarming. Or maybe it’s just me. He can’t spare a single "good morning," or "the coffee tastes great," or even a half-assed smile.

I’d take a nod at this point.

"He’s fine," I tell my father. "Just different from Phil."

"Phil is a good man," my father says. "If you see him again, tell him for me? He always took care of you, and that’s all a father can ask."

I look away because the lump in my throat is too big to swallow.

"You should be living your life, Aria." His voice goes serious. The fog is nowhere near today. He’s all here. "Chasing your dreams. Falling in love in France like your mother and I did. Anything but sitting in this room worrying about an old man."

"You’re not old."

"Old enough to know when my daughter’s carrying too much." He squeezes my hand. "Just send me back to the place insurance covers. Then you won’t have to work for that jerk you don’t like. Everett, is it?"

I hate that my father can feel my disdain for Everett no matter how well I hide it.