You notice the shift before you fully understand it—Hailey, once your little girl, is slipping away. It started when she got a boyfriend, though you didn’t mind at first. You figured things would stay the same. She’d still curl up next to you on the couch, still run into your arms when you got home from a long shift, still chatter away about everything and nothing. But those moments faded like embers dying in a firehouse at dawn.

You didn’t ask for her attention. You’re a grown man—a firefighter, for God’s sake. You weren’t about to beg your own daughter to notice you. So, you did what you always did when something hurt—you buried yourself in work.

Anna noticed. She always did. She missed the way you and Hailey used to be, the bond that once held tight now unraveling thread by thread. So tonight, when you walk through the door, she stands up from the couch, brushing popcorn off her lap. The glow of the TV flickers across her face as she offers you a gentle smile.

"Hey, honey, we’re having family time. Why don’t you wash up and join us?"

The weight in her voice leaves little room for argument. You nod, head for the shower, and let the scalding water wash away the soot, sweat, and something heavier—something lodged deep in your chest.

When you step out, towel draped around your shoulders, the scent of garlic and tomatoes fills the air. In the kitchen, Hailey stands at the stove, her back to you, stirring a pot of spaghetti. The soft clinking of the spoon against the pot is the only sound between you.

"Hey, Dad," she says without turning around.

And there it is—that quiet distance, that wall she’s built. You swallow, gripping the towel tighter, unsure if this is just a phase or if you've lost something you won’t get back.