A small white bowl and a coffee cup. Hand holding a spoon and lips touching the rim. Staring out the window and glancing at her.

Orla went back to eating her cereal. She'd chosen the blue pebble-like ones, they reminded her of the rocks that lay at the bottom of the fish tank, the ones that sparkled and glistened during the spring.

But it wasn't spring.

Orla circled the edge of her bowl with the spoon, making a ringing sound; it sounded louder in the silence.

"What are you thinking of."

It was sounded more like a statement than a question but they both knew what it was. And why it was said. Orla was just the one, as far as she knew, left unclear of why it was her who had to say it, since it usually was her father who did.

It took a moment for him to speak, but then he finally did. Turning away from his screen, he raised his eyebrows at his coffee first than looked up at Orla. "Pardon?"

Orla watched his smile. It wasn't the same. Nothing was the same, not after what happened, but she thought the smile—no, she'd hoped the smile wouldn't change, but it did. And she should've known it would. But he should've known it shouldn't have.

She looked back down at her cereal, stared at the blue. Her eyes unfocused and all she saw was blur but then they focused back on the milk and pebbles, white and blue, safe and solemn.

Orla's lips upturned into a smile. ”I was just wondering what you were thinking about, you're always busy with work, so...” She left it at that, no need to go further. It probably wasn't anything to worry about.

But then this was. Her father took off his glasses with a sigh, rubbing his eyelids before placing the spectacles next to his laptop. He adjusted them until they were aligned evenly between his computer and coffee, balanced and perfect. Nothing like how Orla was feeling.

She watched his face. The smile was there, but it wasn't his smile. It was never his smile anymore. This smile was the one every other adult person wore, the "everything is okay but I'm probably lying" smile. The "we'll get that next time" smile. The "they're great kids but they're a handful" smile. The "I can't right now, dad's always busy all the time, everyday" smile.

Orla felt a sting behind her eyes. This would mean she's probably going to cry, but it felt like a different kind of cry. Usually she cried if she hurt herself badly, if she was bullied too harshly, or if she yearned for a mother in those quiet moments, but this time she felt...just anger. She was angry.

"Darling, I have a conference tomorrow, and I think we'll finally sell this time! Daniel—you know, Dan-Dan, he wasn't feeling his best that time—who would around the point beared man? But I'm surer than sure that we'll get it this time." Her father grinned wistfully out the window. Orla wondered if he thought of the same things when he gazed at the flowers on the back porch. She'd chosen them each for a reason.

The first one was obviously going to be the peonies, they'd been her mother's favorites. At one point they'd been Orla's, too, but sometime when she was eight she'd stumbled upon a handful of tiny, tiny white flowers, smaller than her pinky, and loved them. They were called Baby's Breath, and it was the best description of them. Third was the Chrysanthemums. They were so lively and bright, they were like the flower version of a lion to Orla. At those moments when she felt she had to be brave, remembering them gave her some courage. And lastly was her father's favorite, the roses. They were elegant and seemed almost superior to the other flowers, but still had a sliver of love for things...just things.

Orla turned to her father. He'd just finished speaking about something to do woth giving the wrong lunch to someone and they made an inside joke about it. She realized that she hadn't been listening this entire time.

"Dad," she interrupted. "Do you ever wonder about what it would be like with mo—"

A round of loud coughing erupted from her father, along with a strange look at her. She knee that he was wondering why she brought up something so untimely and not given, especially when she rarely brought that subject up. But he wanted to talk about things that he knew she didn't want to talk about, so she'd do the same to him.

"Orla, why—you know not to interrupt."

"Sorry," she replied, although she didn't feel very sorry. "But I want to know, dad."

He hesitated. "It's not something we could ever know, darling, it's just something to...dream, something that can't—something that we don't have to think about." He got up, meaning to do so in a casual way but Orla sensed his hurry.

"But I want to think about it..." Orla muttered under her breath, but aloud she said, "Okay. Sorry for asking." She joined him, standing up and going to wash her dishes.

He patted her hair. "Oh, don't be sorry, my darling. It's alright to miss things that are precious to us, even if we can never have them again. But we have to remember that if it makes us feel a certain way, especially a bad one, we shouldn't dwell on them." Orla braced herself for what was coming next. "Like how you were acting in school."

Orla scrubbed her spoon hard, although it was clean. She wabted to go but also wanted to stay. She kept silent.

Her father gently took the spoon from her. Bending down to her level, he asked softly, "Why did you punch Abigail?"

Orla scrunched up her eyebrows. "I—it wasnt meant—we—she said that..." She let out a deep breath. ”She said that nobody cares for me anymore because now my dad is gone too."