Maya had always been the kind of daughter who remembered everything — her father’s favorite tea, the way he liked the curtains slightly open, the stories he told about his childhood. She grew up in a small apartment where love wasn’t loud, but it was steady. Her father worked long hours, sometimes two jobs, but he always found time to sit with her at night, listening to her talk about school until she fell asleep mid‑sentence.
When Maya left for the city at nineteen, she promised she’d call every day. And she did — at first. But life in the city moved fast. Classes, work, friends, deadlines. Days blurred. Calls became shorter. Then less frequent. Then… forgotten.
Her father never complained. He would sit by the old landline phone every evening, the one with the slightly frayed cord, waiting for it to ring. Sometimes he’d pick it up just to check if the dial tone was still there.
On his birthday, he cooked himself a small meal — rice, vegetables, and the sweet fried bananas Maya used to love. He set two plates out of habit. One for him. One for her.
He waited.
The clock ticked past midnight.
The food went cold.
In her apartment miles away, Maya was laughing with friends, unaware of the date, unaware of the empty chair across from her father, unaware of the way he whispered to himself, “Maybe she’s busy… maybe tomorrow.”
The next morning, she found a message on her phone.
“Good morning, Maya. Hope you’re well. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
She stared at it for a long time, guilt tightening in her chest. She called back, but he didn’t pick up — he was already at work, pretending the ache in his heart was just another thing he could push through.
Maya promised herself she’d visit soon.
But promises, like birthdays, are easy to forget when life keeps moving — and when the people who love us most never say how much it hurts.
