Her

I remember her, the first time I laid eyes on her. She knocked at the wooden door. I knew it wasn’t an adult knocking, I just know these things. The sound was light, timid, and just a bit too low on the door to belong to someone grown.

I walked across my living room, the floorboards creaking under my weight, and unlocked the door. As I pulled it open, the hinges groaned softly, and there she was, standing on my porch, waiting for me.

She came to me, and I knew it was her. I knew right away she was the one I’d been waiting for. I felt it. It’s hard to put into words, but if I had to, it was like being struck by lightning in the pit of my stomach, a surge of electric energy coursing through me and ending in a sharp, tingling burst at the base of my skull.

She was tiny, small even for her age, and her presence seemed to shrink further under the weight of the gray autumn sky. Her long, blond hair framed her round cheeks, dampened slightly by the drizzle that had been falling all afternoon. Her light blue eyes, startling in their clarity, reflected the dull brown of my front door as if they were trying to absorb everything around her.

She smiled then, just a flicker of a smile. Timid, shy. It might’ve been imperceptible to someone else, but I saw it. I knew it was there.

“Hi,” she said, her voice barely louder than the wind rustling through the bare trees.

I crouched to her level, studying her face as if I might find answers etched in the softness of her features. “Hello,” I replied, the word catching in my throat.

Her small hands clutched a green box close to her chest, a makeshift tray hanging from her neck with an assortment of colorful packages.

“I’m from Troop 195 of the Girl Scouts,” she said, her voice steadier now, though still carrying a gentle, unpracticed rhythm. “I’m selling cookies to finance our trip to Washington next year. Would you like to help?”

I blinked, her words pulling me from the strange fog that had overtaken me since I first saw her.

“I’d love to help,” I said, forcing a smile. “What exactly are you selling?”

She brightened, her confidence growing with every word.

“I have Caramel Chocolate Chip, Do-si-dos, Lemon-Ups, and Thin Mints.”

I nodded slowly, leaning one arm on the doorframe.

“Those all sound delicious.” And they did, each one of them. I wasn’t lying. I’m not a liar. I’ve always tried to tell the truth, to open up to anyone who showed even the slightest interest in... well, in me. It’s rare enough that someone does.

“Which ones would you suggest?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“The Do-si-dos are the most popular,” she replied, a practiced response, one she’d probably used at every house she’d visited.

I tilted my head. “Are those your favorite?”

Her expression softened, her small fingers playing with the corner of a box in her tray.

“No. I like the Girl Scouts S’mores. But…” She hesitated, her eyes meeting mine, “we’re all out of those.”

She seemed genuinely saddened by that, and I could see it in her eyes. That’s something I’ve always been able to do, read people, see the emotions they hide behind words and smiles. It’s a sensitivity I’ve had since I was a boy, and it hasn’t faded with time.

“How about this,” I said, my voice lowering, like I was sharing a secret. “Give me two boxes of Do-si-dos now, and when you get more Girl Scouts S’mores, I want you to come back here and bring me ten boxes of those.”

Her face lit up, her smile blooming into something real and full. It wasn’t timid anymore; it was happy, proud. She looked like she’d just conquered a mountain, a small victory in a world that often feels insurmountable at her age.

“Really?” she asked, her voice rising with excitement.

“Really,” I said, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the cash. I handed it to her.

She reached for it, her movements unhurried, and as she did, I let three of my fingers graze the back of her small hand. It was a fleeting touch, imperceptible to her. Or at least I thought it was. But I noticed. I noticed how her skin quivered, ever so slightly, under my fingertips, like the faintest ripple in still water.

She quickly pulled the money back, her attention shifting as she counted it with practiced efficiency. Then, tucking the bills into the small pouch at her side, she handed me the two boxes with both hands. She held them out as though they were treasures, precious and fragile, the way a child often treats even the simplest things.

“Thank you so much!” she said, her voice louder now, the earlier shyness melting away.

“I’m happy to help,” I replied, meaning it.

She turned to leave, clutching her tray of cookies like a prize. At the edge of the porch, she paused and looked back at me, her eyes wide and sparkling with gratitude. “I promise I’ll come back when we get more S’mores!”

“I’ll be waiting,” I said, watching as she skipped down the driveway, her small frame disappearing into the gray drizzle.

I stood there for a moment, holding the boxes of cookies in my hands, feeling a strange warmth that wasn’t entirely explainable. It wasn’t about the cookies or the sale. It was about the way her smile had lit up the gray, how her small victory had momentarily lifted inside me.

I closed the door and set the boxes on the counter. For a long time, I just stared at them, my mind replaying the exchange. Something about it had settled deeply in me, a seed waiting to grow.

But her room wasn’t ready. I needed to get it ready for her, to make it perfect, comfortable, a place where she could grow strong and healthy and happy. She deserved that.

So I worked at it tirelessly, transforming the cold, gray basement into a beautiful sanctuary. The walls, once lifeless and bare, were painted a soft, light pink, the kind of color that whispered warmth and innocence. A bed with a quilted blanket sat in the corner, flanked by a small table with a lamp shaped like a butterfly. I built a shelf, filling it with hundreds of children’s books, toys, and dolls. Every detail mattered.

A camera sat discreetly in the top corner of the room, its lens fixed on the space where she would sleep and play. It wasn’t about control, it was about safety. I added a lock to the heavy wooden door, one that could only be opened from the outside. It wasn’t to trap her, no. It was to keep the world out, to ensure nothing could hurt her.

The best part, though, was the shopping. I spent hours picking out clothes for her, envisioning her wearing them, imagining how she’d look. I chose soft fabrics in bright, cheerful colors, clothes she could wear now and some she’d grow into over time. Each piece felt like a step closer to her, to making her mine.

And then, I waited. I waited for her to come back. Days turned into weeks, and still, I waited. The two boxes of cookies sat on the counter, untouched. I couldn’t bring myself to open them. Instead, I would trace my fingers along their edges, touching the cardboard like I had touched her hand. Sometimes, I’d lift one to my face, inhaling the faint mix of packaging and something else, something peculiar and fleeting, the smell of her.

The anticipation was unbearable, a constant hum under my skin. Each creak of the floorboards, each knock at the door, sent my heart racing, hoping it would be her. But she didn’t come back.

Not yet.

I knew she would, though. She had to. I’d made everything perfect.

And then one day, her knock came. It wasn’t just any knock, it was her knock. I knew it instantly, even before my body moved to rise from the couch. I felt it in my chest, in my veins, a spark of anticipation coursing through me. The moment I’d been waiting for, the moment I’d been preparing for, was here. The chance to see her again, to look into her bright eyes, to show her what I had built for her, because of her. Because she was the one.

It was her.

I crossed the room in a few quick strides, unlocked the door, and pulled it open. There she stood, with that smile. It wasn’t as shy as before, more certain now, like she knew she was welcome, like she belonged here. In her hands, she held a neat stack of cookie boxes, her reason for coming back. Or so she thought.

I smiled at her, a warmth creeping into my voice that I couldn’t mask.

“It’s good to see you again,” I said.

She beamed, her cheeks flushed from the cool air.

“I have your cookies! And since it’s such a big order, I added a pack of Lemon-Ups. For free!”

“Well, now that’s very kind of you,” I replied, my tone light and friendly.

I slipped my hands into my pockets, pretending to search for the cash. My fingers met empty fabric, as I knew they would. I hadn’t carried any money in weeks. The truth was, I didn’t want to hand her the money here on the porch. Not this time. I needed her to come inside.

I looked up at her, feigning a small chuckle.

“Looks like I forgot my wallet. It’s inside, in the kitchen,” I said, gesturing behind me.

It wasn’t a lie. I don’t lie. I never lie. My wallet was in the kitchen, sitting right on the counter next to the untouched cookie boxes from her first visit. The ones I had been saving for this moment.

Her smile didn’t falter. She nodded, clutching the boxes tighter. “Oh, that’s okay!” she said, ever the accommodating Girl Scout.

“Why don’t you come in?” I asked, stepping aside and motioning to the warmth of the house behind me. “It’s cold out there, and you’ve been walking all afternoon, haven’t you?”

She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flicking to the open door, the inviting glow of the living room beyond. Then she smiled again, this time with a hint of excitement, like this was just another part of her adventure.

“Okay,” she said, stepping inside.

I closed the door behind her, the sound of the latch clicking into place sending a thrill through me. It wasn’t loud, but to me, it echoed. I turned to her, my smile steady, my heart pounding.

“Make yourself at home,” I said, my voice calm and even. “Let me grab that money for you.”

She nodded, her eyes wandering around the room, her curiosity as innocent as ever. She was perfect. Perfect.

And she was finally here.

Oh, do I remember her.

The way her muffled cries felt against my left hand as I pressed it over her mouth, lifting her from the ground with my right arm. She bit down, hard, and kicked wildly, her small shoes landing against my legs, but I barely felt it. I told myself it was normal. She didn’t understand, not yet. She couldn’t comprehend what I had done for her, what I had built, the sacrifices I had made. Not yet.

Her body thrashed against mine as I carried her, her weight so light it felt like she might vanish, but she wouldn’t. Not now. Not ever. I took her down the stairs, each step an echo in the stillness of the house, and through the door. Not a room. Not just any room. Her room.

This was the place I had prepared for her. The place where she would grow, where she would finally be safe. Where I could ensure nothing and no one could hurt her. I would see to that. Only me. I would witness every moment, every milestone. She would know, in time, how much I cared, how much I loved her.

I threw her onto the bed, her small frame bouncing once before she scrambled back, pressing herself against the pink walls I had painted just for her. She screamed, her voice raw and high, tears streaming down her red face.

"Please! Let me go! Please!" she begged, her words garbled through sobs, her tiny hands clawing at the quilted blanket I had chosen with such care.

But I knew it would pass. It always passed. The crying, the yelling, the fear, it would all melt away after a few weeks. It always did. She just needed time to see. Time to realize that this wasn’t what she thought it was. This was better.

“It’s okay,” I said, my voice steady, calm, trying to cut through her cries. “You’ll understand soon. I promise.”

Her tears only fell faster, and her words dissolved into incoherent sobbing. I watched her for a moment, my heart pounding in my chest, but not from regret or hesitation. It was from the sheer anticipation of what was to come.

This was just the beginning.

And like I said… I don’t lie. I never lie.

But they didn’t understand that. They didn’t understand anything. They took her away from me, just three days after she got here. Three days. That’s all the time we had. They stormed in like animals, breaking through the front and back doors, screaming, their boots pounding on the floors I had walked in peace for years.

And the guns. Oh, the guns. Pointed at me. At me.

Me, who had kept her safe. Me, who had given her a sanctuary, a place where she could be loved, cared for, where she could grow without fear.

They didn’t see the love in my eyes, the care in my hands, the way I had worked so hard to make her life perfect. They only saw their own distorted version of the story, their judgment cutting through my truth.

They didn’t understand.

Oh, I remember her. I’ve remembered her every single day for the past 24 years, 364 days, and six hours. I know because I’ve counted. I’ve counted every second, every breath, every heartbeat that has passed since the moment they tore her from me.

But now, just a few more days. Just a little more time, and we will be reunited. Finally.

I’ve waited for this. I’ve prepared for it.

Because, like I said, I don’t lie. I never lie.