Chapter 2 - The Daughter Who Thought I Stopped Paying
“Please don’t tell Maya I’m here yet.”
Mrs. Ortega looked at me across her desk.
“Why?”
I stared through the window.
My daughter had disappeared into a study hall.
“Because I don’t want her first thought to be that she’s in trouble.”
The counselor nodded.
“That seems sensible.”
She made sure the school’s procedures were followed before arranging for us to meet.
While we waited, she told me what she knew.
Maya was fifteen, in her sophomore year, and among the highest-performing students in her class.
She attended school consistently.
Her teachers described her as quiet, hardworking, and unusually responsible.
She volunteered in the library and helped younger students with mathematics.
There were no disciplinary reports.
No unexplained absences.
And no evidence supporting my mother’s claims about reckless spending.
“What about the boy?” I asked.
Mrs. Ortega frowned.
“What boy?”
“My mother said she’s spending time with someone who doesn’t attend school.”
The counselor thought for a moment.
“She may mean Eli Torres. He transferred to an alternative education program last semester and works at a neighborhood grocery store.”
“Is he trouble?”
“I don’t have grounds to characterize him that way. Maya has mentioned that he volunteers at a community food pantry.”
I sat back.
Every complaint Evelyn had repeated over the years suddenly sounded different.
Maya’s bad attitude.
Her expensive tastes.
Her supposed laziness.
I had never asked anyone other than my mother to confirm those stories.
Mrs. Ortega watched me.
“Mr. Vance, may I ask how often you see your daughter?”
The question hurt.
“Not enough.”
“How often is that?”
I swallowed.
“Twice last year. Three times the year before.”
She said nothing.
“I call,” I added.
“How often?”
“Usually once a week. Sometimes less when I’m working nights.”
“Do you speak to Maya directly?”
I looked down.
“Sometimes my mother says she’s asleep or studying.”
Mrs. Ortega folded her hands.
“I think hearing directly from Maya will be important.”
A few minutes later, a staff member brought my daughter into the office.
Maya stopped in the doorway.
Her eyes widened.
“Dad?”
I stood.
For one second, I forgot how to move.
She was taller than I remembered.
Her face had changed.
Sarah’s delicate features had become more pronounced.
There were shadows beneath her eyes.
And she looked at me with the guarded expression of a stranger.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
She glanced at Mrs. Ortega.
“Am I in trouble?”
My chest tightened.
“No.”
She remained near the door.
“Grandma said you were coming because of the laptop.”
I stared at her.
“What did she tell you?”
“That you’re tired of wasting money on me.”
I felt something break inside my chest.
“Maya, I never said that.”
She looked away.
“It’s okay.”
“No. It isn’t.”
She shrugged.
“I know you have bills.”
I stepped closer, then stopped when she instinctively moved back.
I didn’t want to frighten her.
“Maya, what happened to the laptop money?”
She looked confused.
“What laptop money?”
“The eighteen hundred dollars I sent.”
Her face changed.
“Grandma said you wouldn’t pay for it.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“She said you already gave me enough money when I was little.”
Her voice became smaller.
“She said if I wanted a computer, I should get a job.”
I looked toward Mrs. Ortega.
The counselor remained quiet, allowing Maya to speak.
My daughter continued.
“I use the library computers. It’s fine.”
I slowly sat down.
“Maya, I sent the money two weeks ago.”
She stared at me.
“No, you didn’t.”
I opened my bank account.
Found the transfer.
Turned the screen toward her.
She leaned forward.
Read the amount.
Then the recipient.
Her grandmother.
Her lips parted.
“Dad?”
“Yes?”
“Why would Grandma say you didn’t send it?”
I had no answer.
Not one I could honestly give her yet.
So I told her the only thing I knew.
“I’m going to find out.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
She wiped them quickly.
Then she whispered, “Did you send money for my birthday too?”
I closed my eyes.
Every birthday.
Every Christmas.
Every school year.
I had transferred money for gifts and clothes.
Evelyn always reported that Maya loved what she received.
“Yes,” I said.
Maya stared at the floor.
“Grandma said you forgot.”
I lowered my head.
For five years, I had worked myself exhausted to provide for my daughter.
For five years, my daughter had apparently been waiting for proof that I remembered she existed.
I moved toward her slowly.
“Can I hug you?”
She hesitated.
Then nodded.
I wrapped my arms around her.
She was frighteningly thin.
I felt her shoulders shake.
“Dad?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Why didn’t you come?”
I closed my eyes.
That was the question I couldn’t blame on Evelyn.
Not completely.
I could have visited more.
I could have called the school.
I could have asked to speak to Maya privately.
I could have stopped accepting my mother’s explanations because they made my long absence easier to justify.
“I should have,” I whispered.
She began crying harder.
“I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”
I held her.
“I do. I always have.”
She pulled away.
“Then why did Grandma say you were tired of paying for me?”
I looked at Mrs. Ortega.
Then back at Maya.
“I don’t know why she said it. But I’m going to stop letting other people explain how I feel about you.”
Maya wiped her cheeks.
Then reached into her backpack.
She removed an old phone with a cracked screen.
“Dad, I tried texting you.”
I frowned.
“I never got your messages.”
She opened a conversation.
There were dozens of messages.
Can you call me?
I miss Mom today.
I got an A in chemistry.
Are you coming for Christmas?
My throat closed.
At the bottom were replies supposedly from me.
Stop asking for money.
I'm busy.
You're old enough to handle things yourself.
I stared at the screen.
I had never written those words.
Maya watched my face.
“Dad?”
I took a shaky breath.
“That isn’t my number.”
May you like
She went completely still.
Then she whispered, “Grandma gave it to me.”
