Fresh tears meandered down her slightly blunt nose and clung to her thin, white lips, her fingers pressing the glass with all the little strength she had in her. Frail and sickly looking in the tattered white dress she wore for our last dinner date.

I came out of my vision as soon as I got in, my eyes blinded for a moment as the sun shone down, scorching me from within. Scrambling up I shot a glance at the calm waters of the lake, at the group of sweaty young footballers, at old and fat joggers, at couples lazing around hand in hand, before closing my eyes and vowing to never come here again, though I knew tomorrow’s morning will see me at this very spot, looking out at the horizon, looking out at nothingness.

I walked back home. My eldest daughter, Fahmida wished me a good morning and gestured me to the lawn and hurried away, still unsmiling. I watched her straight pony swing in rhythm to those ballerina feet, her willowy figure unidentifiable under the oversized white shirt, neatly tucked in the grey skirt.

Walking into the lawn I greeted the pair of parrots, and sat down on the breakfast table, across the stuffed Winnie the Pooh, my young daughter's favorite teddy. I took off the ceramic plate that covered my Monday breakfast- poached egg with buttered nun. Beside it stood the thick mug of unsugared black coffee, steaming idly. I sipped it, the warmth cooling the fire of anguish inside me; I had tasted my teenage daughter's love.
Back in her childhood, I remember, Fahmida was a beautiful and spirited child, bright eyed and smart. She caught everyone's attention whenever she walked into a room- be it by singing an ancient Bengali song; be it by recitation of a favorite poem in her bird like voice. She grew up 13 years as the most loved, darling and only daughter. After her mother's death; I struggled with my thoughts but turned the focus on Fahmida, gulping some more coffee; the new born came in, sweet in all her tiny ways. She became our light, our solace, our worries and our happiness. She came as the guardian Angel who kept us from dissolving into darkness. Four years passed away and Fahmida was still adjusting to her new life, without her mother, with her sister and with me. She still is adjusting. So am I.

"Daddy! Daddy! How do I look?"

My littlest girl came in, swinging her two long plaits and an inexhaustible exuberance that can only be expected of a four year old. She zoomed in and out, excited about her first cultural event in school; shaking her small hips.

I ran after her and caught her up in my arms and kissed the dimples that peeked out so adorably.
“You look like a princess!”
Eyes wide with wonder, she asked, “Like Cinderella?”

I wanted to say she looked prettier than some fairytale girl but I knew what I had to say.
“Exactly like Cinderella, Princess Asha,” I said, touching my nose with hers.

Her eyes lit up even further as she squealed and clapped, before kissing me and wiggling down to the ground and squinting all the way to her chair to swallow down the margarine sandwich and orange juice.

Just as I was scooping up the last bits from my plate, Fahmida appeared, schoolbag hanging low down her back, biting a large apple.

“Come, Asha! You don’t want to get late on a Sunday, do you?” said the elder sister, languidly waving her hand.
Asha ran out to her and waved at me and dashed back in. Fahmida glanced at me before saying, “I have music lessons, math coaching-“

“And basketball practice and then I will have to pick you up. I know, I will.” I completed, watching her looking at everything but me. These days we hardly meet each other’s eyes. In the few times of the day that we did come across each other, Asha would keep us distracted, or Fahmida pretended to be busy; just like I would pretend to be engrossed in something or the other when she would get mad at me and yelled the house down.
“I want a unit ready to receive the URM delegates at the airport, drive them to Westin and be ready to bring them down here for the meeting at 8. Be very clear. There should be no unprofessionalism from our side.” I instructed three of my men, mentally picturing the change this deal could bring on the face of my company, Ahmed Industry; change for the better.

Entering my cabin, I loosened my tie; it had been a hectic day sorting out the mess one of the major suppliers had created. Realizing I was starving, I picked up the intercom to order a pizza. As I did my eyes fell on my wrist watch and my hand froze in mid-air.

It was six eighteen!

Two hours since Fahmida’s basketball practice had ended. Digging out my phone out of my pocket I checked it; 14 missed calls from Labanna, my neighbor who looked after Asha until Fahmida reached home, and 12 missed calls from Fahmida and several frantic texts.

Grabbing my coat and hitting my eldest daughter’s number I rushed out to the elevator, paced around till it reached the second basement and raced away in my black Prius.

In a distance I saw her. She was buying a packet of spiced corns.

Through mists and in unreachable heights the memories floated back- her mother used to love road side food while I despised it. She and Fahmida would nag me into buying them unhygienic junk. When I finally relented, realizing how my lecture on the poor quality of these eatables was falling in deaf ears and buy them what they wanted my daughter would throw her arms around me and whisper conspiratorially, “You’re the best daddy! You know what, I love you more than mamma!” And her mamma would stick out her tongue and then smile at me and offer me a bit of whatever she was so happily having.

“I would rather travel in a taxi if you pay for it,” she said, dull and quiet. I pulled up the car, scrolled the window up and got down and watched as she walked away and settled on the white bordered red stairs that lead down to the basketball court.

Slowly tracing her steps, I sat down next to her.

“You know, when I was a kid, like you, I had very few friends; only two. We grew up together as neighbors and then when I was four we all got admitted into the same school. Our friendship got stronger over the years. We used to study together, play football together. We even got in several fights with the other boys in the neighborhood. Sometimes we lost and retreated to our homes or we won. But whatever it was, we were together.”

I chuckled, remembering my childhood that revolved around my parents and Rakib and Zafaq. I looked at my daughter to see her looking at me with curiosity. Taking a breath, I continue, “I even once got suspended for misbehaving with the Vice Principal. One of my friends was framed for cheating in an exam and I defended him. And the suspension letter did not for one moment bother your grandparents, because they knew I had done something right. Our friendship should have lasted, would have lasted; but it didn’t.”

Startled, she asked, “What happened?”

“Your grandpa died. We had to move into this city, me and mom, to my Uncle Shumon. We used to call each other, my friends, I mean. The first two months, daily; the next year, weekly; and the next year hardly twice a month. As time flew past, I realized your grandma would never go back to our town; too much memories lay buried there to haunt her. I stopped making promises to visit them and they stopped swearing they would call more frequently. Our friendship evaporated.

Gulping the lump that had formed in my throat, I took her hand and said, “I will never forget them, I may forget their names. But I will not stop cherishing our moments of togetherness, all the memories.”

Fahmida scrutinized me, remaining silent for a long moment before saying, “Can you ever forgive them? For destroying the friendship?”

I smiled, “How can you forgive when there’s no one to blame?”
“But they took away one of the things that meant so much to you!”
“They didn’t! My life did. And my life gave me so much too. Your mum, Asha, you! I have no regrets. Afterall, life is all about changes and adjusting to those changes by the help of our loved ones. Is it not?”
She held me tight, “Yes, it is. And I am sorry.”

I mocked irritation and said, “I thought we skipped the sorry part! Fine. I am sorry too, my darling!”
She laughed and we stood up and walked back to the car.

Mornings still finds me sitting on the grass that looks out to the lake. It was the place where my wife, Fahmida and Asha’s mother, and I first met. Before and after our marriage this was our favorite date place.

I sit here quietly, thinking of her. The horrendous visions had stopped. Instead I see her in the pretty pink saree she wore on our wedding. She smiled, eyes twinkling with mischief and waved at me.

And as I depart, for a change I don’t vow to not come here again in the next morning; because I know each morning I will return and I will have some happy news to give to her; about how me and my daughters are finally growing together as a family.