Page 11 of Ten Day Affair

I don't argue. We fall into step together, walking the perimeter of the hospital grounds. Despite the heat, there's something calming about walking beside him here. His steady pace and the familiar cadence of his breathing are like a dose of Ashwagandha for my soul.

"How's the house?" he asks.

"It's—" I pause, flashing back to two nights ago.

"It's nice. Quiet. I love being able to come home andunwind on the ocean. It's like having a hug from Mom after a long day."

"Your mother would have loved it."

I nod, not trusting my voice. We turn a corner, and suddenly we're facing the east wing of the hospital. My steps falter without permission.

The Evelyn Taylor Wing.

The gold lettering catches the midday sun. Even from here, I can read every word of the dedication plaque beneath it.

It's been five years since the dedication, and it still feels like yesterday. The ribbon cutting, the speeches, Dad standing stoic beside me. We both worked so hard not to shatter in public.

I stop walking completely.

Dad's hand finds my shoulder. "Sam?"

My throat tightens. "Sorry, I just?—"

"I know." His voice sounds rougher now. "I still can't walk by without seeing her."

We stand there together, two fixtures in front of a building bearing our name. The weight of legacy presses down as heavy as the Florida heat.

"She would have been proud," Dad says quietly. "Of the wing. Of you."

I swallow hard. "Jury's still out."

His fingers squeeze my shoulder once, grounding me to the present moment. To this breath. This heartbeat.

"I know so," he says.

Dad steers us away from Mom's wing toward a small terrace tucked beside the cafeteria. It's protected from the worst of the midday heat by a wide pergola draped with bougainvillea. The pink flowers shimmer against the white-painted wood.

"Sit." He pulls out one of the wrought iron chairs.

As much as I want to protest, this is exactly what I need for my break. If he hadn't grabbed me, I probably would have found something to do to fill the fifteen minutes until my meeting instead of taking a minute to breathe.

"Thanks, Dad. This is just what the doctor ordered."

"I'll grab coffee. Hot or cold?"

"I'll have an iced latte, please."

I lower myself into the chair, grateful for the breeze that cuts through the humidity. From here, I can see just the corner of the wing's glass facade, enough to know it's there without having to stare at Mom's name.

Dad returns with two cups, his with steam curling from the top. The ice in mine jingles as I take it from him.

The familiar burnt smell of hospital coffee gives me an odd sense of comfort. It's like my childhood in a cup.

"Still taking it black, I see?"

He nods. "Some things never change."

I smile. "Glad to know you still keep it real, Dad."