Dad, Please Come Get Me

Buying the couch took three Saturdays.

Daniel had not known furniture stores could be that exhausting.

Emma sat on every blue couch in Nashville as if interviewing witnesses. Too soft. Too stiff. Too low. Too deep. Too shiny. Too close to navy. Too cheerful. Too much like a therapist’s waiting room. Daniel followed with patience, coffee, and occasional commentary she mostly ignored.

At the fifth store, she found it.

A deep blue couch with wide arms, soft fabric, and enough room to curl up without disappearing.

Emma sat down.

Then leaned back.

Then placed both palms on the cushions.

“This one.”

Daniel looked at the price tag.

It was not cheap.

Emma saw him look.

“I have money.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Dad.”

He stopped.

Old habit again.

Wanting to pay. Wanting to fix. Wanting to make the object proof that he had returned to his role.

Emma touched the cushion.

“I want to buy it myself.”

Daniel nodded.

“Then you should.”

She smiled faintly.

“Growth.”

“For both of us.”

The couch was delivered the following Thursday to her temporary apartment, which was beginning to look less temporary by then. There were books on shelves. Coffee mugs she had chosen. A framed photograph of Caroline on the windowsill. A small ceramic bowl by the door for keys. No white flowers. No polished marble. No portraits of anyone judging the room.

Daniel helped move the old rental loveseat into the hallway for donation.

Emma stood in the living room, staring at the blue couch like it might vanish.

Then she sat.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Finally, she said, “Andrew hated blue.”

Daniel leaned against the doorframe.

“Did he?”

“He said it made rooms look unserious.”

“That sounds like a man who deserves beige.”

Emma laughed.

Then she cried.

Daniel stayed where he was until she reached out.

Only then did he cross the room and sit beside her.

She leaned against his shoulder.

“I hate that furniture feels brave.”

“It is not the furniture.”

“I know.”

“You are allowed to be proud of small things.”

“It feels stupid.”

“It isn’t.”

She wiped her face with her sleeve.

“Mom would have bought throw pillows.”

“Too many.”

“Ugly ones?”

“Unreasonable ones.”

Emma smiled through tears.

“I miss her.”

“Me too.”

The room softened around them.

For once, missing Caroline did not feel like another wound Andrew had widened. It felt like a window opening.

Emma ordered two throw pillows online that night.

One yellow.

One green.

Both unreasonable.

The next week, Miriam called with news. Andrew’s settlement position had changed. His attorneys wanted to avoid deposition from Rose, from the housekeeper who saved the sweater, from the clinic nurse with gold glasses, from two staff members who had seen Andrew corner Emma after a donor dinner.

“They’re worried about pattern testimony,” Miriam said.

Emma sat on the blue couch while Daniel listened from the kitchen.

“What are they offering?” Emma asked.

“More money. Sealed terms. Still no meaningful admission.”

Emma looked around her apartment.

At the couch.

At Caroline’s photograph.

At the keys in the bowl.

“No,” she said.

Daniel closed his eyes.