Different Roads

The dinosaur had been dead for years. At least, that’s what everybody thought. We changed the batteries so many times that eventually even Maliah stopped asking why it didn’t roar anymore. The thing just sat there in the corner of her room looking slightly judgmental and permanently broken, like an old man refusing to participate in modern society. Still, she loved it. Honestly, that should’ve been my first warning. Maliah loved anything chaotic, loud, weird, or capable of accidental destruction. She was four years old, built like a linebacker, and somehow had the exact same goofy laugh her father used to have before fentanyl hollowed him out from the inside. Same laugh.
Same giant brown eyes.
Same dramatic sneezes that scared innocent bystanders.
Same talent for turning an ordinary Tuesday into a hostage situation. Kade’s family said it all the time. “She acts exactly like him.” And they were right. Sometimes it comforted me.
Sometimes it wrecked me. Today it mostly exhausted me because Maliah was currently sitting cross-legged in my bed eating beef bacon dog treats while watching cartoons like this was a perfectly acceptable life choice. “Maliah,” I said carefully, “those are for dogs.” Without looking away from the TV she shrugged. “They taste like bacon.” Honestly, fair enough. Beside her, Kaia snored softly under a pile of blankets while some cartoon character on the television screamed about crop theft or raccoons or whatever chaos kids watched these days. The dinosaur sat near the bedroom door. Bright green.
Too expensive.
Slightly terrifying. Kade bought it years ago before Maliah was old enough to remember him. I didn’t even know it existed until after he died. Turns out while he was spiraling through addiction and pretending he wanted nothing to do with being a father, he’d secretly been filling a storage unit with things for her anyway. Diapers.
Tiny clothes.
A rocking chair.
Toys.
Stuffed animals.
Baby blankets. And the dinosaur. Apparently he spent almost ninety dollars on the thing, which felt ridiculous considering it had the emotional stability of a haunted appliance. Maliah dragged it everywhere anyway. She fed it crackers.
Talked to it.
Slept beside it.
Packed it around Las Oleas like it was a family dog. The fact it didn’t work never seemed to bother her. Which honestly felt symbolic somehow. A week earlier she’d carried it all the way to my mom’s house while Kaia stayed home with me for a rare mommy day. Maliah spent the entire afternoon shoving crackers into the dinosaur’s mouth and introducing it to random furniture like it needed emotional support. At one point she walked over and pushed another cracker between its plastic teeth. “No baby,” I laughed. “Nana doesn’t want crackers all over the floor.” I pulled the cracker back out. The dinosaur immediately roared so loudly I almost launched myself into another dimension. Maliah just blinked at it calmly. My mom froze in the kitchen doorway holding a cup of coffee. I stared at the dinosaur. The dinosaur stared back with glowing red eyes and another aggressive roar. For a second nobody moved. That toy had not worked for years. Not once. Not after battery changes.
Not after cleaning it.
Not after smacking it like an old TV remote.
Nothing. And suddenly there it was roaring like it had risen from the dead itself. Maliah looked up at me completely unbothered. “See?” she said proudly. “He was just hungry.” I laughed so hard I accidentally cried. Because that was the thing nobody tells you about grief. Sometimes it doesn’t show up in cemeteries or anniversaries or old photographs. Sometimes grief sneaks up on you through plastic dinosaurs and little girls with familiar laughs. Sometimes it sounds exactly like a man you loved living on inside a child who eats dog treats in your bed. That night after both girls finally fell asleep, I sat alone in the quiet apartment staring at the dinosaur sitting near the hallway wall. Outside, Las Oleas was wrapped in fog thick enough to swallow streetlights whole. The dinosaur’s eyes suddenly flickered once in the darkness. I stared at it. “Absolutely not,” I whispered. Silence. Then I laughed at myself because clearly sleep deprivation and unresolved trauma were becoming a dangerous combination. Still, before turning off the kitchen light, I looked back at the dinosaur one last time. And for the first time in years, Kade didn’t feel dead. He felt everywhere.