Dad and Biscuit

Dad walks Biscuit every morning at 6am. Out the front door into the quiet neighborhood, fog still hanging in the air. He waves to no one in particular. It’s been his routine since Mom passed - him and the dog, every morning, rain or shine.

His phone buzzes in his jacket pocket. He pulls it out, taps the notification, quick fingerprint scan, green checkmark. Slips it back in his pocket. Never stops walking.

Three hundred miles away, his daughter is getting the kids ready for school. Chaos - backpacks, cereal, a lost shoe somewhere under the couch. Her phone lights up on the counter. She sees it. She smiles. She keeps moving.

He doesn’t have to call. She doesn’t have to nag. They just have a deal.

He’s sitting on the bench now. Biscuit is sprawled at his feet. He’s got a coffee. He’s watching the sunrise. Completely content.

She pauses for a moment in her kitchen. Looks out the window. There’s a flicker of what the worry used to feel like - the knot in her stomach when he didn’t pick up by 8, the what-ifs that would spiral through her morning. That’s gone now.

Dad scratches Biscuit behind the ears. Gets up to head home. Easy morning. No fuss.

Just a deal between a father and his daughter: I’ll check in. You’ll know I’m OK.