Page 1 of Not Your Little Girl Anymore

Chapter One

Summer

I think about my life and what led me to where I am today a lot. I’ve always wanted to matter. To make my mom and dad proud of me. And they have been. But I still feel hollow inside. Like I’m meant to do something bigger, greater. I never thought about death and all the in-betweens of it until now. Until Dad called me.

“Your mother,” he began with a shaky voice. “She was found dead.”

The way he stuttered, struggling to inform his only daughter that her mother is no longer alive—it rips something inside of me apart. The words replay over and over again, like a broken record. I try to understand. Why Mom? She was a good person, a great mother. She didn’t deserve to die.

There is one thing that sits in the back of my head, one I can’t shake: how did it happen?

When I pull into the parking lot of one of my favorite restaurants—at least it was growing up—my chest falls heavy. Dread washes over me. I haven’t been here in a long time, and knowing my father is inside waiting for me only makes my stomach twist.

It’s been two years since I saw my dad. Since attending college in New York, we’ve only had the privilege of talking over the phone between Dad’s career and my studies. I was upset at first, but as time went on, I wasn’t all that bothered. My studies became a priority. Until I became more uninterested than I was.

I never wanted to be a nurse. It was Dad’s idea, and at the time, the only thing I longed for was to see the look on his face. It made everything worth it. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t hate it. I love the thrill and adrenaline of helping people. That feeling is so good, and it’s an excellent career choice.

I think about how often Dad tells me he’s proud of me. What would he think of me once he finds out I’m not returning to college? Would he hate me?

An unsettling feeling works its way through me at the thought but I take a deep breath and make my way across the parking lot.

When I step inside the restaurant, I find my father almost immediately. He’s sitting at the same table I loved growing up—the dark blue booth in the corner.

Dad’s eyes light up when he sees me. I swallow thickly and walk over to him as he stands and wraps his arms around me. His hug is tight and so familiar. I soak it up for as long as possible, my heart tugging in my chest.

“I missed you,” he says before letting go.

“I missed you too, Dad.” I give him a wry smile, but it falls quickly. I haven’t had a real smile since that phone call.

The waitress comes over and places a glass of water on the table. I sit across from my father, forced to squirm for a minute to get comfortable. It’s hard when my body feels like it’s on fire from the emotions I’ve been suffering from lately.

“How’s work been?” I ask, hoping to ease the hole in my chest and hoping he will give me more details about Mom’s case.

His lidded eyes wander around the restaurant. I can tell he hasn’t slept much since the news about Mom. The bags under his eyes are dark. The wrinkles in his forehead have increased since the last time I saw him.

“Work is work. How’s college?”

My stomach drops, making me feel a bit queasy. There’s no reason I should feel this way toward him. He’s my father—the man who nurtured me. But I know he won’t accept my dropout, and with Mom’s passing, it’s not the time or place to discuss that with him.

“It’s good,” I lie, keeping my eyes on my glass of water.

I’ve never lied to my father. Not precisely, anyway. I’ve split the truth a few times, but only to make him happier. Truthfully, I’m a terrible liar, and if I look at him, he’ll know I’m lying, so I avoid it altogether.

At least until the subject changes.

When the waitress comes back, she has two plates, one in each hand. She places one in front of me and the other in front of my father.

My mouth forms a small smile as I stare down at a plate of chicken tenders with cheese melted on top and a side of curly fries. I haven’t eaten this in years. “You remembered.”

“Your favorite meal since you were three. How could I forget?”

Suddenly, my heart warms a little—not enough to help soothe the pain in my chest, but a little. Silence fills the space between us as Dad digs into his meal. I take a small bite and wash it down with a sip of water, wishing this lunch could be over already.

“Hey, Dad.” He glances up at me, still chewing. “Did you call Mary and June? You know... about Mom.”

He stops in mid-chew, his jaw ticking before he swallows and grabs a napkin to clean around his mouth. “I have not.”

My lips press together, the ache in my chest digs a deeper hole. “Are you going to call them?”

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