Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Frank looked in the mirror, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing at his reflection. The shirt was navy blue—simple, comfortable, with buttons that didn’t quite sit as flat as they used to. His hand brushed down his belly, frowning a little at the way the fabric stretched just slightly over his middle.

He exhaled slowly through his nose and stepped out of the dressing room.

There you were, right where he left you—sitting cross-legged on the little upholstered bench outside, Mr. Lollipop cradled lovingly in your arms. The stuffed animal, a pink and white rabbit with one floppy ear and a permanently askew bowtie, looked as grungy as it did beloved. Frank still had no bloody idea why you'd named it Mr. Lollipop, but you'd looked him dead in the eye last Christmas, declared it with all the certainty of a royal decree, and that was that. Mr. Lollipop it was.

Frank stood before you, arms slightly out to the side, like a soldier awaiting inspection. “Well?” he asked, voice low and amused, baritone curling through the mall’s stale air. “What do we think? Too fat?”

You looked up at him, thoughtful for all of three seconds before your face split into a bright, unfiltered smile.

“Yes!”

Frank blinked. “...Yes?”

You nodded, beaming. “You look very fat today, Grandpa. Just like a cuddly bear.”

He barked a laugh, loud and genuine, one hand coming to ruffle your hair. “Well,” he muttered, still chuckling, “good thing I wasn’t hoping for slim panther.”

You held up Mr. Lollipop for consultation. “He agrees,” you said seriously. “He thinks blue makes your tummy look round and warm, like a cookie.”

Frank snorted and looked at himself again in the mirror across the store. “A cookie, huh? Well, if it passes the Mr. Lollipop test, I suppose it’s a done deal.”

He disappeared for a minute to change back into his original shirt, then returned, the navy one folded neatly under his arm. You followed him up to the register, hand wrapped tightly around his pinky, your legs swinging wildly with each step to keep up with his long strides. As the cashier rang up the shirt, you tugged on his arm.

“Grandpa?”

“Mmm?”

“So there was this doll,” you started, your voice picking up in volume and speed, “and she had a horse and a crown and she goes on adventures in the forest—but Daddy said man, and I told him dolls aren’t for just girls and then he said we should wait for my birthday, but I know he doesn’t want to buy it 'cause he says the plastic smells funny, and anyway it’s on TV all the time and I just wanted to know—”

Frank raised a hand, not unkindly. “Breathe, peanut.”

You inhaled dramatically, cheeks puffed.

He smirked, handing the cashier his card and glancing down at you. “You asked your dad?”

You nodded vigorously. “He said it costs too much and to pick something practical, and that I already have too many toys.”

Frank gave a small, dry sigh, taking the bag from the cashier. “Of course he did.”

Your dad, Eli, bless him, could pinch a penny until it screamed. You once asked for a coloring book and he brought home a stack of blank printer paper and said “make your own.” Frank didn’t mind his son’s frugality on most days—it made him responsible, disciplined, maybe even admirable. But when it came to his granddaughter?

Christ. What wasn’t expensive to Eli?

Frank scooped you up with practiced ease, settling you on his hip, your arms looping automatically around his neck. Mr. Lollipop dangled from your tiny fingers, flopping with every step as Frank carried you out of the store.

You rested your head on his shoulder, babbling again, something about how the doll’s crown sparkled and how her horse had hair you could braid, and Frank just let you talk, the sound of your voice wrapping around him like a well-worn blanket.

He held you close, rubbing a hand over your back, and thought—not for the first time—that if this was the version of life he got after everything else... he could live with it. The weekends were short. The years were flying.

But today?

Today, he was the big, fat cookie.

And you were his whole damn world.

Your stomach growled—loud and forlorn.

You and Frank both looked down at it, the moment caught mid-step just outside the mall doors. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows across the parking lot. Mr. Lollipop dangled lazily from your arm, as if even he were hungry.

Frank glanced at you, brow raised, mouth tugging into that crooked smirk of his. “Peanut,” he said softly, “I told you to eat that sandwich before we left.”

You blinked, sheepish, your small arms still wrapped around his neck as he carried you. “I wasn’t hungry then,” you murmured, avoiding his eyes.

Frank sighed, shifting your weight gently on his hip, the fabric of his shirt stretching as he adjusted. “And now your stomach’s singing show tunes,” he muttered, though his tone was more amused than annoyed. “You’ve got to eat, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, your voice small.

That softened him—immediately. He pressed a kiss to your temple, the bristle of his scruff brushing your skin. “It’s alright,” he murmured, voice warm and low in your ear. “We’ll fix it. How about we get something now, hmm? Burgers? Or do I have to find somewhere that sells royal forest doll-horse food?”

You giggled, your nose scrunching as you tilted your head. “Burgers.”

“Atta girl,” Frank chuckled, and began walking again, one hand on your back, the other carrying the shopping bag. His gait was slow, deliberate—partly because he was tired (his knees were not what they used to be), and partly because he didn’t want the day to end.

You were growing up too fast. Five years old, already reading above your grade, always asking impossible questions. Eli had been out of the house for years, chasing tenure and glory in equal measure. Frank’s wife had passed before you were even old enough to form memories of her—just photos and old lullabies that lingered in the corners of your mind. And now, in just three weeks, you’d be gone too.

California.

He hated the sound of it. Dry and distant and sun-bleached. A state that felt like an exile.

Eli had accepted the position with the same sharp ambition that had always driven him—head high, voice brisk, as though the decision were a minor detail in the larger masterpiece of his career. Frank hadn’t argued. Not with his son. Not anymore.

But he was going to miss you more than he could bear.

You stirred against him, and Frank glanced down, noticing the shift in your posture. Your cheek, which had been resting contentedly against his shoulder, now lifted. You were quiet. Uncharacteristically so.

“What's the matter?” he asked gently.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your little fingers twisted in the collar of his shirt, and then, softly, your voice dropped to a whisper—serious, unsure. “Grandpa… do you think Daddy doesn’t like me?”

Frank stopped walking.

The question hit him like a gut punch, short and sharp. He turned his head, trying to see your face, but you wouldn’t look at him. You were staring past his shoulder, eyes focused on some distant point in the lot.

“What?” Frank said, his baritone a notch quieter now. “Why would you say that?”

You shrugged, slow and hesitant. “He always seems… mad when I talk. Or when I make noise. Or when I ask stuff. He sighs a lot. And he doesn’t really hug me. Not like you do.”

Frank’s jaw tightened.

He didn’t answer right away—couldn’t. The silence stretched as he adjusted you in his arms again, holding you a little tighter now, as if to shield you from something he couldn’t name.

“That’s not your fault,” he said finally, his voice thick with restraint. “Your daddy… he’s not very good at showing things. Feelings. He doesn’t always know how to talk. Or listen.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” Frank stopped again, this time lowering himself onto a nearby bench, cradling you in his lap like you were still three years old and not a gangly-limbed child with too many thoughts. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to him. He just doesn’t know how to act like it.”

You were quiet.

Frank brushed your hair back, fingers gentle behind your ear. “You’re loud because you’re curious. That’s good. You ask questions because you’re smart. That’s good. And you laugh because you’re still a kid, and you’re supposed to laugh. That’s good, too.”

“But Daddy says I talk too much.”

“Your daddy talks too little,” Frank countered, his tone growing dry. “Trust me. He’s been like that since he was your age.”

You smiled a little at that, your eyes flicking to his. “Really?”

“Really,” Frank said, his hand still brushing your back. “He used to sulk for hours if his Lego tower broke. You get upset and build another one in thirty seconds flat.”

You giggled, the shadow beginning to lift.

Frank looked at you then—really looked. The little person perched on his lap, full of feelings and fears and funny phrases. You weren’t his child. But you were the closest thing to a second chance he was ever going to get. And come California, he wouldn’t have your voice in his ear anymore. No more Mr. Lollipop debates. No more mall benches. No more peanut grins.

So he held you tighter.

“I love you,” he said into your hair. “And no matter what happens—no matter how far away you go—you always have me. Always.”

You nodded, tucking your head beneath his chin. “I love you too, Grandpa.”

His throat clenched.

After a moment, you lifted your head again. “Can we get fries and a milkshake?”

Frank blinked, then let out a wheezing laugh. “You just said the magic words, peanut.”

And with that, he stood again, hugging you close, and walked toward the food court—his arms full of the only thing that had ever mattered more to him than being right, than being a soldier, or a husband, or even a father.

You.

Years later, Frank Benson had aged into a quieter man. Slower. More brittle in the bones and tired in the mornings. His hair, once neatly combed and steel-white, now fluffed unevenly over his ears. His back ached more often than not. He didn’t wear his uniform anymore—hadn’t in years—but he still carried himself with the dignity of a man who once commanded rooms and governments and airstrikes.

That morning, he shuffled out of bed just after sunrise, his old knees creaking in protest. He scratched the stubble on his chin and made his way to the kitchen, the morning chill still clinging to the tiles. He hadn't turned the heat on yet—it wasn’t that cold, and besides, he liked the way the cold made him feel awake.

As the kettle started to rumble, his phone buzzed on the counter. He turned his head slightly, brow furrowing when he saw your name on the screen.

California. It had to be close to three in the morning where you were.

He answered anyway, leaning the phone between his ear and shoulder while he poured the boiling water over his instant coffee. “You’re awake,” he rumbled, voice rough with sleep and gravel. “Or lost in time zones. What does my girl need from her grandpa this early, hmm?”

There was a breathy little laugh on the other end. “I just missed your voice.”

Frank smiled faintly, cradling the mug in both hands. “Well. That’s a rare compliment. You alright?”

He started walking slowly toward the living room, each step deliberate. He stopped just before the mantle, looking up at a large oil painting that hung above the hearth—a portrait of himself, stern and proud, his likeness captured in bold, affectionate strokes. You’d painted it years ago, when you were still in college, still sending him sketches of strangers you saw on the subway and café napkins scribbled with ink.

But now, on the line, he heard it: wind.

Lots of it.

He paused, squinting slightly. “Where are you, sweetheart? Sounds like you’re outside.”

There was a pause. A long one.

“I’m fine,” you said eventually, dodging the question. “How are you? Really.”

Frank blinked. That caught him off guard. You were usually the one who avoided sincerity like the plague, couching it in humor or sarcasm. But this was soft. Open.

And so, for once, he didn’t lie.

“I don’t think this heart’ll last much longer,” he said simply, settling down in his old armchair. “But I’ve made peace with it. I’ve seen a lot. Done a lot. Loved a little. I’m okay.”

He didn’t hear you respond.

“Sweetheart?”

Still, you were quiet.

And then, softly, “You’re the closest thing I’ve had to a father.”

Frank didn’t breathe for a moment. His eyes stayed fixed on the painting above the fireplace, your brushstrokes frozen in time. His chest tightened, but not from the usual ache. This was deeper. Older.

“I love you,” you added, your voice cracking slightly, but still carrying on. “Very much.”

Frank’s lips parted, but the words didn’t come fast enough.

“And Grandpa,” you continued, a touch lighter, “don’t watch the news for the next few days, alright?”

His brow furrowed. “Why the hell not?”

“It’s just… better if you don’t.” You laughed softly, but it wasn’t real. “Promise me, okay? Promise you won’t.”

Frank grunted, distracted. “Alright. Fine. I promise. Christ, what are you up to now?”

You didn’t answer.

“I have to call Dad now,” you said instead, your voice quieter again. “I just… I have to. After all, I’m about to be a great artist, right?”

The wind roared again in the background.

And Frank’s heart sank.

“Where are you?” he asked again, this time firmer, more serious. “Sweetheart. Where are you?”

But the line had already gone silent. Just a click. Just gone.

He sat there for a long time, staring into the flickering morning shadows that danced across your painting. His thumb hovered over the call log.

And then, slowly, he lowered the phone to his lap.

For the first time in years, his hands trembled.

He didn’t keep his promise. Of course not.

Watching the news was practically a universal law for old men. Especially military old men.

Frank Benson made it three days. Three long, restless mornings of staring at your painting above the hearth, of hearing your voice echo in the corners of his memory. Of playing that call on loop, over and over: Don’t watch the news. Promise me. And he had. But a promise is a fragile thing when the air feels too still, and the silence in a house starts sounding like grief.

It was a Sunday when he cracked. Early. The kettle had just begun to boil. He sat in his old chair, reached for the remote, and told himself it would just be background noise—just the weather. Nothing else.

And then the screen came alive.

He saw the bridge before they even said the name.

The footage rolled in loops—amateur cellphone recordings, some blurry, some too crisp, all of them showing you. Jumping. From the Golden Gate Bridge. From different angles, different voices crying out, different hands too far away to help. The world knew before he did. The world watched you die before he even knew you were gone.

And then the headline:

DAUGHTER OF NOBEL PRIZE WINNER, ELI MICHAELSON, MISSING AFTER SUICIDE JUMP—BODY UNRECOVERED

Frank’s heart seized in his chest. His coffee spilled across the carpet as he dropped the mug without noticing, his hand shaking violently as he reached for the phone. He didn’t even remember pressing the number, just that Eli’s voice eventually answered, sharp and tired.

“Hello?”

“You bastard,” Frank said, barely above a whisper. His breath came in short, broken gasps. “You absolute bastard.”

Eli paused. “...Frank?”

“Don’t call me that,” Frank snapped. “Don’t call me that like nothing happened. Like nothing is fucking wrong.”

“Frank—”

“You said nothing.” His voice cracked, trembling under the weight of disbelief. “She called me. She called me. Three days ago, said she missed me, said she loved me—and she jumped, Eli. Off a fucking bridge. And I saw it on the news. The news. Like every other goddamn stranger.”

Eli went silent for a moment.

Frank’s knuckles were white around the phone. “Why didn’t you call me?” he hissed. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t know what to say,” Eli finally replied, his voice thick, frayed at the edges in a way Frank had never heard. “I didn’t want to believe it—she was just...gone.”

“You’re a Nobel laureate, Eli. Words are your entire goddamn life,” Frank spat, voice rising. “And suddenly you didn’t have one for your daughter’s death? For my granddaughter? Christ, what happened to her? What happened to her? Why did she do this?!”

There was a beat. And then Eli said, quietly: “She was raped.”

Frank went completely still.

His vision blurred, black creeping at the edges.

“Frank?” Eli said again, voice more strained now. “Are you still there?”

Frank couldn’t answer.

All he saw was you. Running down a hallway toward him, arms flung open, calling him Grandpa like it was the most sacred name in the world. You, curled against him at five years old, whispering fears about your father’s coldness. You, asking him if you were too loud, too much, too wrong.

You called him. You needed him. He failed you.

There was static on the other end. Then: “Dad, please. Don’t do this. Don’t—don’t leave me alone in this. Not now.”

Frank couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t hear Eli’s voice anymore. All he could see was your five-year-old self, running through the mall with Mr. Lollipop flopping behind you. The way you’d once wrapped your tiny arms around his leg, whispering, You’re my favorite person, Grandpa. The way you had called him.

You had called him.

Your voice had been soft. Distant. And now he understood why.

You had needed him.

And he had let you down.

“I’m sorry,” Eli was saying now, his voice thin and shaking. “Dad? Daddy, please. I’m sorry.”

Frank sank into the chair again, hand trembling as it dropped the phone to the floor, the screen still lit, Eli’s voice echoing faintly from the speaker.

But Frank didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He just stared at the painting above the fireplace—your painting of him, proud and upright, your brushstrokes bold and full of affection.

His eyes filled with tears.

“She called me,” he whispered aloud, voice breaking. “She called me.”

And still—he hadn’t come.

Chapter Text

The sun was just beginning to climb over the tree line, painting the lake in lazy streaks of gold and pink. A low mist hovered on the surface, and somewhere in the distance, a loon called. It was peaceful.

Or it had been.

“Bloody hell,” Frank barked, the calm of morning instantly shattered as he yanked at his fishing rod. “Watch where the hell you’re casting, you bloody—!”

The other fisherman—a wiry man in his forties with a sunhat and a permanent scowl—snapped back immediately. “Maybe if you knew how to cast, you old bastard, you wouldn’t be tangling up everyone else’s lines!”

Frank’s white brows shot up. “Old bastard? I’ve been fishing this lake since before you were born, you little shit—”

“Grandpa!”

The high-pitched shriek stopped Frank mid-sentence. He turned sharply, breath still caught in his throat.

You were standing on the dock behind him, your tiny frame nearly swallowed by an absurdly large bright-orange life jacket, one strap hanging halfway off your shoulder. Your hair stuck out in tangled tufts from under a pink sunhat. You gripped your little plastic fishing rod like it was a holy staff and glared at him with righteous fury.

“You’re saying ugly words!”

Frank opened his mouth. Closed it again. He looked from you to the fisherman and back, the full weight of your judgment settling on his shoulders like a brick in a wet sock.

You marched over to him with all the determination of a five-year-old who meant business. You grabbed the hem of his shirt with a firm tug and turned to the other man.

“I’m really sorry,” you said solemnly, your voice as crisp and polite as Sunday church. “He doesn’t usually act like this. He had orange juice this morning, and sometimes that makes him cranky.”

The fisherman blinked.

You gave him a prim nod. “I’m going to put Grandpa in the punishment corner.”

Frank coughed—once—his baritone warbling with disbelief. “The what now?”

You turned on him, eyes narrowed. “You said the s-word. And the h-word. And the bastard-word, which is super bad.”

Frank’s mouth twitched. He looked around the lake like someone might come rescue him from his own five-year-old conscience. No one did.

You crossed your arms. “Go sit on the cooler.”

He looked at you. Then at the cooler. Then at the fisherman, who was now grinning behind his bait bucket.

Frank sighed through his nose. “Fine.”

He shuffled toward the large blue cooler, muttering under his breath, “Used to command strikes. Now I’m being sentenced by someone who still needs help opening juice boxes.”

You heard that.

“Grandpa!”

“Sorry,” Frank said automatically, lifting his hands in surrender as he sat on the cooler like a scolded schoolboy.

The fisherman snorted and went back to his pole.

You stood with your little rod, glaring at the lake like it had personally offended your sensibilities, before finally letting out a huff and climbing up beside Frank on the cooler. Your tiny legs dangled beside his.

“Do I get a trial at least?” Frank asked after a moment.

You thought about it.

“You can appeal at snack time.”

He chuckled, shaking his head slowly. “Well, that’s generous of the court.”

You leaned your head against his arm, your life jacket squishing up around your cheeks. “You’re not really in trouble,” you whispered. “I just didn’t want you to fight. Fishing’s supposed to be nice.”

Frank glanced down at you, and something in his chest clenched. You always managed to do that—pull him out of whatever storm was brewing inside, just by sitting there with your tiny heart wide open.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “Fishing is supposed to be nice.”

You nodded sagely. “And quiet. And with snacks.”

Frank smiled.

“I brought jelly beans,” you added proudly, pulling a crinkled paper bag from your little pink tackle box.

He blinked. “Those are going to be warm.”

“Yup,” you said, unbothered, popping one into your mouth. “They’re lake beans now.”

Frank laughed, and for the rest of the morning, he didn’t curse once.

He handed you the fishing rod like it was made of glass.

“Here,” he murmured, adjusting your grip with gentle, callused fingers. “Keep it steady. Like this. See?”

You nodded, serious as a heart attack, your small hands gripping the rod with all the solemn focus of a soldier in training. The orange life jacket puffed out around you like armor, and your legs swung above the dock, scuffed sneakers tapping softly against the air.

Frank smiled to himself.

The lake was still. Peaceful. A breeze lifted the tips of the trees. The only sounds were distant bird calls and the soft plunk of a lure hitting water.

You stared out at it for a while, the tip of your little tongue poking between your teeth in concentration, before your voice broke the calm.

“Did you bring Daddy fishing like this when he was little?”

Frank hummed, sitting back against the cooler, one hand braced behind him on the dock. “I tried.”

You turned to look at him, eyes wide with curiosity. “He didn’t like it?”

Frank gave a small snort. “Not one bit. Said it was boring. Too quiet. Too still.”

You blinked. “So what did he like?”

“He liked staying with your grandma,” Frank said, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “She spoiled him rotten.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

Frank chuckled low in his chest. “Because she did. Because he was her baby, and she loved him. And… because we couldn’t have more kids. Eli was our only one.”

You sat with that for a moment, your head tilted to the side, watching the water ripple.

Then: “Why didn’t you ask the stork for more?”

Frank paused, lips twitching. “Well,” he said slowly, “we tried. We hoped. But sometimes the stork just… doesn’t come. Even if you ask nicely.”

You turned your head and looked at him, thoughtful. “Maybe he got lost.”

Frank’s throat tightened. He swallowed once and reached over, brushing a bit of hair away from your face, his big hand warm and solid against your cheek.

“Maybe,” he said softly.

You nodded, satisfied with that logic. “But it’s okay. ‘Cause now you got me.”

Frank’s hand stilled.

You didn’t look at him, still watching the water with that calm five-year-old certainty that life made sense if you just believed hard enough. Mr. Lollipop rested at your side, his floppy head bouncing against your knee.

Frank blinked once. Twice.

Then he let out a breath through his nose, slow and steady, his voice low and rough when he finally answered.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve got you, peanut.”

You beamed.

Then immediately dropped the fishing rod with a shout.

“GRANDPA I THINK I CAUGHT SOMETHING—”

Frank lurched forward with a curse that he very quickly bit back.

“Bloody—heck!” he corrected clumsily, grabbing the rod before it could launch itself off the dock entirely. “Easy! Easy—don’t let go—”

The rod jerked, the line taut.

You squealed, clinging to the handle with all your might, feet kicking, life jacket bouncing.

Frank laughed—really laughed—his whole chest shaking. “Well I’ll be damned—heck! I mean heck!” he amended quickly, catching your warning look. “You’ve got a fighter!”

You were practically vibrating. “What if it’s a shark?!”

Frank choked on his laugh. “It’s a lake, peanut. Unless someone’s been flushing aquarium rejects again, I think we’re safe.”

You shrieked with laughter, and Frank let you pull the line while he guided your hands, his own wrapped around yours. And as the fish broke the surface—small, silver, flapping like it had a vendetta—you gasped with pure joy.

“I DID IT!” you cried.

Frank grinned, pulling it in. “You did.”

You bounced on your toes. “Can we name him?”

Frank eyed the fish. “He’s going back in the water, peanut.”

“But just for a second?”

He sighed. “Alright. What’s his name?”

You thought for a moment. Then, with the solemn authority of royalty:

“General Splashington the Third.”

Frank nearly dropped the fish from laughing.

“Well, General,” he said, carefully lowering the wriggling creature back into the lake, “carry our regards to the kingdom.”

You clapped. “Bye, General!”

Frank ruffled your hair, shaking his head.

“You’re going to be the death of me, you know that?”

You grinned. “But I’m your favorite peanut, right?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “Always.”

The sky outside the windshield had faded to a soft lavender-blue, tinged with the warm glow of the setting sun. The road curved gently through the sleepy outskirts of town, pine trees casting long shadows that flickered across the car’s interior.

Frank’s hands rested firmly on the steering wheel, his baritone humming quietly as the radio played the tail end of "Complicated" by Avril Lavigne. The familiar strains of early-2000s pop filled the air, the speakers humming with nostalgic static—but in the back seat, you hadn’t made a sound in nearly fifteen minutes.

That was never a good sign.

Frank glanced up at the rearview mirror, frowning slightly.

You sat there with your rabbit—Mr. Lollipop—cradled in your arms like a security blanket, your cheek pressed to the window, watching the world blur by in contemplative silence. You weren’t asleep. Your lashes fluttered now and then, and your little fingers tugged absentmindedly at the hem of your jean shorts. You weren’t crying either, which was worse, somehow. Crying meant something had happened. Silence meant something was brewing.

Frank turned the volume down a notch, letting the next track—something by Coldplay—fade into the background like wallpaper.

“You alright, peanut?” he asked, his voice low and easy, careful not to push too hard. “You tired from the day? Or…”

He hesitated, choosing his next words with care.

“…or didn’t you think fishing was fun?”

Your head turned just enough for him to catch the flash of your wide eyes in the mirror. You blinked once, solemnly. Then your face crumpled into a grin.

“I loved fishing,” you said firmly, lifting Mr. Lollipop and nodding his floppy head for emphasis. “Very very very very very much. And I liked the lake. And the jelly beans. And when you said that I had the best rod stance.”

Frank chuckled, a soft exhale through his nose. “You did. Excellent form. Terrible patience, but solid form.”

You giggled but quickly sobered, turning your face back to the window. Another beat of silence passed. Then your voice came again—softer now, distant.

“Sometimes…” you murmured, “sometimes I wonder what it would be like to do those things with my daddy.”

Frank’s fingers tightened slightly on the wheel.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just kept driving, eyes locked on the road. The car was quiet save for the distant thrum of the tires and the muted music floating from the radio.

He looked in the rearview mirror again.

You were hugging your rabbit now, holding it a little closer to your chest. Mr. Lollipop’s bowtie was crooked. Your voice was very small.

“Mommy says Daddy’s just busy. That he has a lot of things to do.”

Frank’s throat worked around something thick and bitter.

You weren’t accusing. Weren’t whining or pouting or trying to make anyone feel bad. You said it like a fact. Like it made perfect sense. Like it was your job to explain away the absence of the man you adored more than anyone in the world.

Frank had seen it from the beginning—that inexplicable, boundless love you had for Eli. You’d followed him with those big, admiring eyes from the moment you could walk. Hung on every word, even when those words were short, dismissive, distracted. You’d shown him your drawings, your bruises, your new shoes, your gold star from kindergarten, hoping—aching—for just a flicker of attention.

Eli, in return, had smiled tightly. Nodded. Maybe patted your head before returning to his notebook, his research, his papers. He’d always meant to do better. Frank knew that. But meaning to and doing were oceans apart.

And the child in the backseat—his peanut—was learning how to build boats out of scraps. Trying to cross the ocean all by herself.

Frank cleared his throat.

“Your daddy,” he began carefully, “he is a busy man. That’s true.”

You nodded silently, as if you’d been preparing that speech for months.

“But,” Frank continued, baritone steady and warm, “being busy doesn’t mean he shouldn’t make time for the people he loves. It doesn’t mean you’re not important.”

You didn’t answer. Just hugged Mr. Lollipop a little tighter.

Frank turned down the side road toward home, the tires crunching against loose gravel.

“You ever think maybe… maybe your daddy doesn’t know how to be around kids?” Frank asked. “Some people don’t. Some people get nervous. Or feel like they don’t know what to say.”

You tilted your head, considering. “But I talk a lot. He doesn’t have to say anything.”

That nearly undid Frank right there.

He forced a smile. “Yeah. I know, sweetheart.”

You sniffled once, but it wasn’t from crying. Just thinking too hard again, the way you did sometimes—like the world was just a puzzle that you had to solve before bedtime.

“I know he loves me,” you whispered after a while, as the house came into view up the lane. “I just… wish he wanted to know me too.”

Frank put the car in park.

Then he turned fully in his seat, resting his arm over the back of it so he could see you clearly—your small, serious face, your thumb rubbing the worn edge of your rabbit’s ear.

He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come.

Frank Benson could face down politicians and terrorist negotiations with a calm heart and steady hand. But in the face of your small voice, in the shadow of your pain, he was utterly wordless.

So instead, he moved.

He unbuckled his seatbelt, the click loud in the quiet cabin. Then he opened the passenger door, stepped out into the cooling dusk, and walked around to your side. The door creaked open with a soft groan, and he reached in gently, fingers steady despite the tremor in his chest. You didn’t move when he undid your belt. You didn’t resist as he pulled you into his arms.

You just let him hold you.

His hands were broad and solid against your back, your small frame tucked tight beneath his chin. The weight of you—still light, still so heartbreakingly small—pressed against his chest like an old wound reopened. He held you like a soldier shielding a casualty, like a man clutching the last good thing in a world that never gave second chances.

And his voice—when it came—was low. Ragged.

“I’ll take care of you,” Frank murmured into your hair. “Always. You just have to call me, peanut. You call, and I’ll come. I swear it.”

You didn’t answer.

At least, not right away.

Then, softly, so bitterly it cut deeper than any scream, you whispered, “That’s a lie.”

Frank blinked, his arms tightening instinctively. “What?”

“You’re a liar, Grandpa.”

Your voice wasn’t angry. It was flat. Toneless. The kind of voice that came after crying, after hurting, after hope had finally given up. It was a voice far too old for a child.

Frank leaned back just slightly, just enough to see your face—but you didn’t meet his eyes. You stared past his shoulder, Mr. Lollipop crushed between your arms and his shirt.

“You let me jump.”

Frank froze.

Your words hit like shrapnel.

“I called you,” you said again, quiet. “From the bridge. I called. You said you’d come. But you didn’t. You let me fall.”

“No,” Frank rasped. “No, sweetheart, that’s not—”

But the ground shifted beneath him.

The car was gone. The trees disappeared. The road. The sky. All of it.

And in its place, water.

Water rose around his boots—fast. Up to his ankles. His knees. Cold and black and endless. He clutched you tighter, panic flashing in his chest, but your body was gone. Slipped from his arms like vapor. Only your voice remained, echoing in every direction.

You let me jump.

The water surged higher. His legs moved sluggishly, thick with resistance. His knees locked, then gave. He staggered. Slipped.

“Peanut!” he cried out, twisting, searching for your face, your hair, your voice—but there was nothing. Nothing but the rising tide. The weight of guilt. The sound of you falling and falling and falling.

He reached out blindly, grasping at nothing. The water filled his mouth, his lungs.

“Wait—” he gasped, arms flailing in the dark, “please, wait! I’m sorry, I’m—”

The water swallowed him whole.

And Frank Benson woke up with a choked gasp, flinging himself upright in bed.

His breath came in ragged bursts, his chest heaving. Sweat clung to his temples, soaking into the creases of his age-worn face. His hands trembled against the blanket, clutching at the sheets like a lifeline. The room around him was dim, lit only by the weak blue glow of dawn seeping through the curtains.

He looked to the nightstand.

The clock read: 5:14 a.m.

One week. Exactly.

One week since your name had filled the headlines. Since your picture had splashed across every screen. One week since the bridge had stopped being a road and become your grave.

Frank bent forward slowly, his hands cradling his head.

He could still feel the weight of you in his arms. The chill of the water. The sound of your voice.

You let me jump.

“No,” he whispered into the dark. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t mean to—”

But the house was silent.

There was no one to hear him.

Just the ticking of the old clock on the wall, and the faint, lingering scent of instant coffee he hadn’t made yet.

Frank stayed there like that for a long time. Still. Shaken. Alone.

Because no one tells you, when you promise to always come, what it means to break that promise.

No one tells you how a heart like his—trained, armored, used to war—could be undone not by bombs or bullets, but by the silence after a single unanswered call.

And no one tells you what to do when the person you loved most in the world believes, in their final moment, that you let them go.

Frank sat in the quiet and listened to the lie echoing in his chest until dawn finally claimed the room.

And he did not go back to sleep.