It was older. It was my childhood home and held a great deal of memories. It was small, but as a single dad, it was all he could afford. I pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. It was clear he wasn’t home. I made my way up the cement walk with little cracks that were in need of repair but would likely not get done anytime soon.
I collected the mail from the box and used my key to go inside. “Dad?” I called out, just in case his car was in the shop.
There wasn’t an answer. I put the mail on the small table near the front door. It was where the mail went. It never went on the dining table or on a kitchen counter. It always went on the table. My slightly obsessive nature was absolutely the product of my father’s upbringing.
I looked around the living room that was clean and neat. It was who he was. Organized. He could give Marie Kondo a run for her money. I walked into the kitchen and noticed a few dishes in the sink. I quickly rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher.
I opened the fridge to see what he had been eating. I wrinkled my nose when I saw the meager contents. He was clean and organized but he ate like shit. He would get so caught up with work, he would skip meals. He did eat a lot of takeout, which I did not recommend. He was getting up there in years and I didn’t want him keeling over because he ate like shit.
The fridge offered no hope. I opened the freezer and found some chicken. I pulled it out, popped it in the microwave to defrost and rummaged through the pantry to find something to pair it with. I tapped my fingers on the counter, trying to figure out what I could make.
“Chicken casserole, it is,” I decided.
I quickly mixed it up, popped it in the oven to cook, and went to check the laundry. I tossed in a load and folded what was in the dryer before carrying it into his bedroom. His bed was neatly made. A book sat on the nightstand, along with his reading glasses. I left the folded clothing sitting on his dresser and walked out.
My bedroom was pretty much the same as it had been when I lived there. He had put a desk in one corner and was calling it an office. He left the bed, just in case I needed a place to crash. It was sweet. I had been in my apartment for years and had my own bed, but he always wanted me to have that safety net.
I walked down the hallway, pausing to stare at the picture of my mother. I missed her. Well, not really her because I never really knew her. I missed the idea of a mother. My dad had done his best, and I never lacked for love or attention, but a mother offered a little something different. Her life had been cut short on a quick run to the store. A car accident had taken her from us when I was three. My dad never remarried. It was not a subject he entertained.
I puttered around, picking up a little before I heard the oven timer. I pulled out the casserole, covered it with foil, and popped it back in the oven on the warm setting. I wasn’t sure when he would be home, but I didn’t think it would be too much longer.
I grabbed the notepad from the drawer to leave him a note.
Hi Dad, I stopped by, but you weren’t here. I made you a chicken casserole. There’s a load in the wash. Make sure you toss it in the dryer before you go to bed. I have an event tomorrow, but I will call you on Sunday. Take care of yourself. I love you, Evie.
P.S. I tossed the Chinese. It is high in sodium! You know better!
I left the note on the counter and left the house. I had learned to cook at an early age. I wasn’t ever going to be Pioneer Woman good, but I could hold my own with the basics, like casseroles. I could cook the hell out of a casserole.
I had to get home and get back to work on all the little details for the party, including what I would wear. I had a full wardrobe specifically for events. As the