At 6:32 the next morning, the Daughter discovered the guest.
She had inherited her father’s inability to move quietly.
The Woman heard bare feet across the hallway.
Then stop.
“Dad?”
The Single Dad, downstairs making coffee, closed his eyes.
Here we go.
His Daughter appeared at the guest-room doorway.
The Woman was already awake.
Sitting on the bed.
Her cane beside her.
“Who are you?”
The Woman smiled.
“Who are you?”
“Daughter.”
“That’s an unusual name.”
The child giggled.
“My name is—”
She gave it.
The Woman gave hers.
The Daughter stepped closer.
“Are you blind?”
The Single Dad reached the hallway just in time to hear it.
He nearly died.
The Woman did not seem offended.
“Yes.”
“Completely?”
“Mostly.”
“What does mostly mean?”
“It means I can sometimes tell whether a room is bright or dark.”
“Can you see me?”
“No.”
The Daughter considered.
“What do you think I look like?”
The Single Dad whispered:
“Oh God.”
The Woman smiled.
“You sound like you have messy hair.”
The Daughter gasped.
“How did you know?”
“Magic.”
The child ran downstairs to inspect herself in a mirror.
The Single Dad looked toward the Woman.
“Sorry.”
“For?”
“The interrogation.”
“I survived.”
“She’ll have fourteen more questions by breakfast.”
“Good.”
“You say that now.”
The Daughter returned with seventeen.
The Woman answered almost all.
How does the cane work?
Can you dream pictures?
Do you know colors?
Can you use a phone?
Can you watch movies?
Can blind people cook?
Do you bump into walls?
What happens if someone moves furniture?
Can you ride a horse?
Can you swim?
Can you tell when somebody is smiling?
The Woman handled each question seriously.
No embarrassment.
No patronizing.
When the Daughter asked whether being blind was scary, the Woman paused.
“Sometimes.”
The child waited.
“But being able to see can be scary too.”
“How?”
“You can see things coming.”
The Daughter thought.
“That sounds useful.”
“It is.”
“Then blindness is worse.”
The Single Dad almost interrupted.
The Woman shook her head slightly.
“Some things are harder.”
“Some are just different.”
“Some things I do better now than when I could see.”
The Daughter frowned.
“Like what?”
“Listening.”
The child smiled.
“Dad is bad at that.”
“I am standing right here.”
Breakfast became their first family meal.
Nobody called it that.
The word would have been absurd after ten hours.
Still, something about the table felt unexpectedly complete.
The Single Dad hated himself for noticing.
The Woman had nowhere to go that day.
He had work.
He offered to let her stay.
She hesitated.
“You don’t have to keep doing this.”
“I know.”
“That answer is becoming annoying.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
She stayed.
Day one became day two.
Day two became day three.
Not because they made a plan.
Because every alternative required solving several impossible problems at once.
Housing.
Employment.
Transportation.
Documents.