Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes.

Host: The evening had fallen like a quiet memory over the small town. The sky hung low and heavy, painted in hues of lavender and ash. In the distance, the faint hum of a train drifted through the air—a sound both familiar and lonely, like a story that never learned how to end.

Inside a weathered café by the roadside, time seemed to slow. The smell of coffee and rain filled the air, and the light from a single lamp made the room glow with the soft melancholy of nostalgia.

Jeeny sat by the window, her hands wrapped around a mug she wasn’t drinking from. The steam had faded long ago, but she still held it close, like warmth remembered. Across from her, Jack leaned back in his chair, eyes steady on her face, reading the silence more than the words.

For a moment, neither spoke. Only the sound of rain tracing lines down the glass, as if the sky itself was remembering someone it once loved.

Jeeny: “Gloria Naylor once wrote, ‘Old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes.’”

Jack: “Yeah.” (He nods slowly.) “That one hits hard.”

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How time keeps moving, but certain absences stay the same size.”

Jack: “Time doesn’t heal, Jeeny. It just teaches you how to carry the weight without breaking.”

Host: The lamplight shimmered faintly across Jeeny’s eyes, catching the quiet ache there. She looked down, tracing the rim of the mug with her finger, her voice soft.

Jeeny: “When I was little, I thought missing someone meant you’d forgotten to move on. Now I think it means they never really left.”

Jack: “Or maybe they left so deep inside you that moving on would mean losing the only part of them that’s still here.”

Jeeny: “That’s a cruel kind of mercy, isn’t it?”

Jack: “It’s life. Cruel’s just another word for honest.”

Host: The wind outside rose for a moment, brushing against the glass, as if trying to join the conversation. Inside, the world stayed still.

Jeeny: “Do you miss your father, Jack?”

Jack: (pauses) “Sometimes. Not in the way people think. I don’t miss who he was—I miss who I might’ve been if he’d stayed.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s what Naylor meant? That missing isn’t always about the person—but the space they left?”

Jack: “Yeah. Because the space changes shape as you do. When you’re a kid, it’s safety you miss. When you’re older, it’s direction. Eventually, it’s forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “Forgiveness?”

Jack: “Yeah. The kind that never got said out loud.”

Host: The rain grew softer now, falling like a lullaby against the roof. The light in the café dimmed as the sun gave up the last of its gold.

Jeeny: “My father used to say the world owed him nothing. He worked three jobs, never complained. But the night before he died, he looked at me and said, ‘I hope you live a softer life than I did.’”

Jack: “That sounds like a blessing.”

Jeeny: “It was. But I never knew how to live softly, Jack. Every time I tried, I heard his voice pushing me to be stronger, tougher, sharper. And yet—” (her voice breaks slightly) “—some nights, I still just wish he’d tell me it’s okay to rest.”

Host: She smiled faintly, a trembling smile—half gratitude, half grief. Jack looked down at his hands, his fingers tapping lightly on the table, as if keeping time with the things he couldn’t say.

Jack: “You know, my dad wasn’t the blessing kind. He was more like a storm—loud, unpredictable, gone before you knew how to prepare.”

Jeeny: “Did you love him?”

Jack: “I think I loved the idea of him. The kind of man he might’ve been if he’d known how to stay.”

Jeeny: “And do you forgive him?”

Jack: “Every day. Just not always on purpose.”

Host: The neon sign outside the café flickered, painting their faces with slow pulses of blue and pink. The room seemed to breathe in rhythm with their silence.

Jeeny: “It’s strange how missing someone can grow quieter but never smaller.”

Jack: “That’s because love’s got no expiration date. It just changes form. Becomes memory, becomes music, becomes that ache you don’t know how to name.”

Jeeny: “Like muscle memory of the heart.”

Jack: “Exactly. You stop thinking about them for a while—and then one day you hear a song, or smell a cologne, or see a daughter holding her father’s hand—and the ache just... wakes up again.”

Host: Jeeny looked toward the window. The rain had stopped, but the glass still shimmered with reflections. Somewhere outside, the faint sound of a child laughing echoed down the street, too pure for such a gray evening.

Jeeny: “You know, when Naylor wrote that line, I don’t think she meant sadness. I think she meant gratitude—that love could last long enough to be missed.”

Jack: “Or maybe she meant that no matter how old we get, we all still want someone to tell us we did okay.”

Jeeny: “Yeah.” (She smiled softly.) “Maybe that’s what being grown up really means—learning to be your own parent, one quiet day at a time.”

Jack: “And still missing the one who taught you how to dream.”

Host: The two of them sat in silence. The clock on the wall ticked softly, counting not time, but absence. The room felt smaller now, warmer—like a memory closing its hand around them gently.

Jeeny: “Do you ever think we carry our fathers differently? Men and women, I mean.”

Jack: “Maybe. I think women remember the comfort; men remember the shadow.”

Jeeny: “And what do you remember?”

Jack: “Both.”

Host: Outside, a car passed, its headlights cutting briefly through the café before disappearing down the wet road. The light caught Jeeny’s face—her eyes, glistening but peaceful.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… some part of me still waits for him. Like if I turn around fast enough, I’ll see him smiling at the door. It’s ridiculous.”

Jack: “It’s human.”

Jeeny: “You still wait for yours?”

Jack: “Sometimes. But now I wait for myself more.”

Host: The words hung between them, heavy and soft. For a long moment, no one moved. Then Jeeny reached across the table and placed her hand over his—no drama, no grand gesture, just presence.

The rain outside had turned into mist, settling gently on the streets. The world seemed, for a heartbeat, entirely still.

Jeeny: “Maybe missing someone is how we keep them alive.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s how they keep us alive.”

Host: The lamp above them hummed faintly, its light flickering like the last breath of twilight. Jeeny looked down at her hand on his, and for the first time that evening, her smile reached her eyes.

The café clock struck seven. Somewhere in the distance, the train’s horn sounded again—low, wistful, familiar.

Host: Outside, the night gathered itself. Inside, two hearts—weathered, unguarded—sat beneath the soft glow of remembrance.

And though they both were grown, the child in each still reached quietly toward the fading echo of a father’s voice—hoping, just once more, to be told they were loved.

Because, old as they were,
they still missed their daddies sometimes.