“Tomorrow?” the little girl asks.
Her father struggles to unbuckle her seatbelt. He wishes she could stay. He never wants to see her go. To watch as she enters her mother’s home and greets the man at the door. The door will close, as it always does, and away the father will go, where he’s always been, waiting for a call. Waiting to be told when he’ll get to see his daughter again. The little girl slides out of the car. The father kneels down for a hug.
“Tomorrow,” he whispers, though he doesn’t know when that will be.