B hold the LT

She sat up, groaning softly as the rusty springs of the mattress pressed against her spine. Her elbows dug into the scratchy, slightly musty-smelling comforter as she scanned the room. The overhead fan rotated with a slow, uneven wobble, casting warped shadows across the ceiling from the bare bulb above.

Where is he? she wondered, turning toward the analog clock beside the motel’s Bible. The red hands pointed to 8:45.

“Ugh,” she exhaled, falling back onto the bed, too tired and too hungry to care about whatever invisible motel-borne bacteria might be burrowing into the polyester sheets.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she came. Curiosity, maybe. Possibly guilt. Or maybe it was something quieter, something heavier... a deep, dull ache she had carried with her for nearly a decade. A hollowed-out space in her chest where a father should have been.

The letter had arrived last week. Her name was spelled correctly, but just barely. The “i” in Molly was awkwardly tucked behind the “y,” like it had hesitated, unsure if it belonged there at all. A recurring theme for him. The return address had no name. Inside was a photocopy of a will and a letter littered with words like terminal, regret, and make peace.

Classic man, she had thought at the time. Couldn’t say I’m sorry in person, but suddenly wanted forgiveness when the sand in the hourglass started to run out.

Yet… here she was.

A key rattled in the lock. She stiffened, the air catching in her throat.

Not because this was her first time seeing him. That had happened two hours ago. He’d met her outside the Dudley Motel after his fourteen hour drive - straight from Houston. Headed for Glendale, California. Her town.

He hadn’t set foot in it for over seventeen years, not since the day he left. But the place hadn’t changed. Neither had the sign. The same peeling letters. The same flickering “VACANCY” light. She’d passed that motel hundreds, maybe thousands, of times from the passenger seat of her mom’s Camaro. She never once imagined it’d be the place she’d see her father again.

He stepped inside slowly, quietly. In one hand, he held a plastic gas station bag. Two sweating fountain drinks and a Styrofoam clamshell inside.

“Got you a sandwich,” he said, placing it on the old TV stand with an awkward pat and a vague motion, as if signaling to a dog.

She didn’t respond. Just watched as he sat down on the edge of the other twin bed and rubbed his knees like they were trying to give him a message his ears no longer could. The silence stretched between them, long and limp, like a cord that had been cut but hadn’t stopped swinging.

“You don’t have to stay long,” he said eventually. “I just wanted to see you… and give you that.” He motioned to a folded sheet of paper. The deed to his trailer.

“I won’t,” she replied. Her voice was flat. Practiced.

Another silence crept in, heavier this time. He stood and began pacing the short edge of the bed, arms wrapped tightly around his chest like he was trying to hold something in organs, emotions, time.

“I’m not sure what to say,” he said. “I don’t know how to be a dad.”

The air conditioner came to life with a metallic wheeze, humming over the moment like it couldn’t bear to hear any more.

She had rehearsed her response the entire drive. Then you shouldn’t have become one. You don’t deserve to be a dad. You’re not my dad. Over and over, she said them aloud in her car, to the windshield, to the rearview mirror, to the ghosts in the backseat.

But now, face to face with the man she had built like scaffolding in her memory, angry, cruel, absent, she couldn’t say any of it.

He wasn’t the monster she’d constructed. He wasn’t much of anything, really. Just a tired man with washed-out blue eyes and a body that looked like it was trying to disappear on its own.

He seemed… softer.

Her stomach grumbled.

“Let’s eat,” she said instead. Her voice cracked as the words escaped.

She crossed the room and opened the clamshell. Inside was a sandwich, if you could call it that. Just bacon. A thick smear of mayo. Nothing green. No tomato. No lettuce.

Just a B with no LT. Yeah, she thought, he’s definitely been living alone.

He joined her at the table and took a loud, open-mouthed bite.

“You look just like your mama,” he said after a beat, brushing crumbs from his lip with the back of his hand.

“People say that,” she replied, eyes fixed on a long stain in the carpet.

Then, more quietly: “She said I look like you, too.”

He shifted. Didn’t respond. Just cleared his throat and reached for his drink.

“Maybe,” he said, “after this next appointment, me and you could go somewhere. Take a trip.”

She looked up. Her eyebrows tilted ever so slightly.

“I’ve got a buddy who works custodial at Disneyland,” he continued. “Bet he could get us in.”

Disneyland? She wasn’t sure what was more ridiculous...his suggestion, or how badly some small part of her wanted to believe it could actually happen.

“Sure, Dad,” she said, almost a whisper. “That would be nice.”

The word Dad hit him like sunlight on old glass. His lips curled into something that resembled a smile. Crooked. Fragile. Real.

“You wanna watch some TV?” he asked, nodding toward the antenna-covered box.

“Okay,” she said.

They lay down in their separate beds. Jeopardy flickered on. Alex Trebek’s voice smoothed the edges of the room, familiar and low. The fan spun. The air conditioner rumbled.

And somewhere between Double and Final Jeopardy, she fell asleep.

She woke suddenly. Disoriented.

The door was clicking shut. Soft. Careful. Like someone tiptoeing out of a memory.

She sat up, breath caught. The other bed was empty.

She scrambled up and rushed to the door. Pulled it open.

There he was. Halfway down the corridor. His silhouette glowing under the flickering motel lights, like a ghost only half returned to flesh.

“Dad!” she called out, voice tight, trembling. “Where are you going?”

He turned. Slowly. Gently.

“Don’t worry, pumpkin. I’m just going for a little walk.”

She stood frozen. Tears caught in her lashes.

“I can’t sleep,” he said. Like a child. Like someone hoping she’d understand.

“Go back to bed,” he added. “I’ll be right back.”

Then he turned. And kept walking.

She stood there for a moment longer before slowly stepping back into the room. The door closed with a soft click behind her. Her hand fell to her side.

The room was quiet again. But something had shifted.

At her feet sat a single suitcase.

Hers.

She scanned the space.

One toothbrush. One pair of shoes.

The window glowed suddenly, twin headlights cutting across the wall like a spotlight, followed by the sharp screech of tires clawing at gravel.

She didn’t move. Didn’t cry.

She just stood in the silence, staring at the door.

And just like that… he was gone.

Again.