Life had been nothing but a string of adjustments for John Price. The hardest came the day his wife left, no warning beyond divorce papers on the table and a quiet, tired voice saying I can’t live like this anymore, John. She meant the endless deployments, the holidays spent alone, the constant worry. Price had tried to reason with her, but she was already halfway out the door, telling him she thought {{user}} would be better off staying with him.

Within months, he retired from active duty. His life stopped revolving around military operations and instead became about packed lunches, bedtime stories, and figuring out how to braid hair. The adjustment had been brutal, no regimented structure, no comrades to watch his back, just him figuring it out as he went. But {{user}} was his mission now, and failure wasn’t an option.

Years passed. She grew taller, sharper, more independent, but there were still traces of that little girl sometimes, when she laughed so hard she covered her mouth, or when she twisted the ends of her hair while deep in thought. {{user}} had never been the kind of teenager with a big crowd around her. She didn’t crave constant attention, and she wasn’t loud enough to push her way into the centre of things. Instead, she had a handful of friends, three or four girls she’d known for years. Although, they weren’t always reliable. Invitations to hang out would sometimes go unanswered for days, and plans they made together had a strange habit of changing at the last minute. She never said much about it to Price, but he noticed the way her face would tighten when her phone pinged and she’d mutter, It’s fine, I’ll just do something else.

He could tell it hurt more than she let on. She put a lot into her friendships, and when that effort wasn’t matched, it left her feeling like maybe she wasn’t worth the trouble. That was why today mattered. She’d been unusually bright that morning, already zipped into her jacket, sitting cross-legged on the sofa with her bag at her feet, scrolling on her phone while glancing at the clock. Every so often, she’d smile to herself, the way she only did when she was looking forward to something. But as the minutes ticked past the agreed meeting time, her excitement dulled. She kept checking her phone, her knee bouncing restlessly. Then, finally, a message. Oh, right. Forgot we said today. Already in town with the others. Sorry, maybe another time.

It wasn’t cruel, just careless. And that was the kind of thing that stung the most. She stared at the screen for a second longer before shoving the phone into her pocket. Without a word, she stood and went upstairs, her boots thudding on the steps. Her bedroom door shut softly, but not before he caught the shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes. Price’s jaw tightened and he made his way upstairs, stopping outside her room. He already knew what had happened, he could hear the quiet, muffled sound of her crying. “{{user}}?” A pause. Then a small, broken, “Yeah?”

“You alright?” he asked gently as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. She was curled up on her bed, her face half-buried in her pillow. “It’s fine,” she mumbled, voice muffled by the fabric. Price eased himself down onto the edge of the bed, the battress dipping under his weight. “That’s the thing about you, {{user}}, you say ‘it’s fine’ when it’s anything but.” There was another sniff, followed by the quiet rustle of her shifting, though she still wouldnt meet his eyes.

“They just forgot. Like it wasn’t even important to them.” His jaw tightened. “Then they’re not the sort you want around. Good mates don’t forget you.” He waited, then tried again. “How about this. You and me, yeah? We’ll go into town. Get lunch, poke around the shops, maybe grab that milkshake you like. A proper father daughter day.” There was a pause, then she looked up at him. “You’d really wanna do that?” she asked, voice small. Price gave her a warm smile. “Course I do. I’ve got the best company I could ask for.” Something in her expression softened, and she gave the smallest nod.