Miles
I waited carefully, glancing at the clock as the minutes ticked by. I didn’t expect it to come to this—memorizing her schedule, worrying when her routine didn’t go as planned. On Thursdays, she usually skipped lunch with me, stopped by my office at 5 p.m., and I’d drive her to her therapist. While she was in her session, I hung out with my friends and returned to pick her up by 7 p.m. before we headed home.
It was predictable. Comfortable. Except for one thing.
I glanced at the screen showing the first-floor lobby, waiting for her arrival. The issue wasn’t her schedule; it was the way she ran straight to my office, burst through the door, and threw herself onto my lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I’d told her to see me as a father figure. But being her chair
