They sat at the table for an hour without saying a word to each other. In the stony, deafening quiet he read his paper as she fiddled with her hair. Outside, a steady flashing light lit up the window they sat in front of as the tree outside swayed in a quiet dance. Once, he cleared his throat and she looked up, hoping it was the beginning of a conversation. He, instead, turned the page and settled more into his barely cushioned chair.

Minutes more passed and she stopped even fiddling with her locks. She cleared her throat and looked over to her father with half-closed eyes, hoping that would spark a conversation. His eyes only flickered and then resumed their scanning of the local news.

“Dad,” she whispered.

“What,” his voice boomed.

“Can we go see Mom?”

A sigh, another shifting in his seat told her the answer before he spoke. “Not today, honey.”

She lowered her face until her head rested against the table. In her other hand was a picture of her. The last one.

“I love you,” she mouthed.