Page 11 of His Daughter

Caleb wasn't that man. Caleb was forever.

It happened fast. So fast it didn't feel real. We filed papers. We signed them. No courtrooms. No long arguments. No one made us explain what broke. We agreed on everything because there was nothing left to fight over, and maybe that was the worst part. It was like closing a folder. Like ending a chapter no one planned to close.

Now Caleb was a name on a divorce decree finalized five weeks ago, and I was walking to work on a gray morning in a gray city under a sky that matched the inside of my chest.

I wasn't supposed to be here. I was supposed to be a mother by now. Our daughter was supposed to be sleeping in the room with the mint-green letters on the wall. Instead, the room was locked, the key in a drawer, and my ring finger bore a tan line where the band used to sit.

I walked into the nonprofit building, and Margot was in the hallway. She didn't say a word — just opened her arms. I walked into them. Her scarf smelled like cocoa butter and the lavender oil she kept in her desk drawer. Her twists tickled my cheek. I stayed for ten seconds, nine more than I usually allowed.

Then I pulled back. "You can stop hugging me. I can’t be feeling like this every day."

Margot didn't laugh. She just let go. "It's just — you always look so sad when you walk in… But alright. You really think you're ready?"

I nodded. "We need this funding."

"The secretary at Vanguard confirmed the meeting time again this morning. We're presenting to the head of corporate social responsibility." Margot grabbed her bag from the hook on the wall. "I've got the slide deck. We're going to get this. I can feel it."

I saw how sure she was. How hopeful. And all I could do was wish — God, I wished — that I could feel even a sliver of that for myself.

The Vanguard building made me aware of my shoes. Crossing the lobby, I glanced down at my flats — the leather already creased at the toe. I wished I'd worn something else. Beside me, Margot's heels clicked against the marble.

A woman with a headset and a silk blouse checked our names against a screen, printed visitor badges, and escorted us to a private elevator.

We rode up in silence. Margot adjusted her scarf. I adjusted my navy blazer — my best secondhand find, almost intentional if you didn't check the stitching. My canvas tote hung on my shoulder, stuffed with printouts, backup copies, and a granola bar I probably wouldn't eat.

The elevator opened onto a floor of glass walls. A young man led us down a corridor past offices where people spoke in low voices behind expensive doors, to a conference room at the end of the hall.

The table was long and polished, reflecting the overhead lights like still water. At the front sat Claire Dumont, the head of the Corporate social responsibility (CSR) we were here to see. She looked mid-forties, her golden hair in a high ponytail that complemented the tailored green dress. She stood when we entered.

"Ms. Calloway. Ms. Osei. Thank you for coming in." She gestured to the chairs at the opposite end.

We sat. Margot opened her laptop. I opened the folder with our impact reports and laid the pages in front of me.

"Thank you for making the time, Claire." Margot clicked to the first slide. "We'd like to walk you through the emergency housing program we've been running for the last three years, specifically the placement outcome data and the funding model that sustains it."

Claire uncapped her pen. "Please."

"Last fiscal year, we placed two hundred fourteen families in emergency housing. The cost per family comes to approximately $1400, which includes casework, the housing subsidy, and the transitional support package."

"That's lower than the city average," Claire said.

"Significantly." Margot nodded. "Because we don't run shelters. We broker directly with landlords who've agreed to subsidized short-term leases, eliminating the overhead of physical facilities."

Claire wrote something down. "And the retention data?"

Margot clicked to the next slide. "Over the last twelve months, our placement rate has held at 87%. That's families who entered emergency housing through our program and transitioned to stable, long-term arrangements within — "

The door opened. A man stepped in. My eyes started at his feet — dark shoes — then traveled up to his black suit, his open collar revealing a peek of a toned chest. A lock of dark hair had fallen across his forehead; he pushed it back with his whole hand as he crossed the room.

Then I saw his face.

His face looked carved from stone. His eyes swept the room and found me — light blue, an innocence that looked out of place with his strong features and the powerful, confident way he moved.

He sat at the far end of the table and didn't introduce himself. He didn't need to.

He nodded at Claire. "Continue."

Claire didn't miss a beat. "You were saying — 87% retention."