Daddy's Little Girl

Why was it that school was boring, but her father talking for hours on end was not? 
Ashley was young, and many words flew over her head. All that mattered to her was the lulling voice of her father, talking in an ever constant rhythm. It didn’t matter what it was about. 
It was just so peaceful. 
This time, sitting on the front porch next to him, he said something about her mother, and how he thought the quiet Ashley was smarter than her always-yapping mom. 
When the sun reached the horizon, his spiel ended. Much like every other time, he sighed and patted her head with his large hand, albeit with great care. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” he said in a slow voice, quieting down; she wouldn’t know how tired he was until she got older. 
The cicadas sang in his silence. Before she could protest, he got up, probably to work on his car again, but not before placing a kiss on Ashley’s head. “You’ll always be my little girl. Don’t you forget it.”
How funny it was. She’d never forget it, but she seemed keen on believing he would: trying to make him proud, whether it’d be straight A’s, winning the baseball championship or cooking better than her own mother could, she would do anything her dad asked of her. Thorns and storms could hurt her, but she would never stop. 
Would it ever be enough?
And then sometimes, he’d smile down at her, call her his little girl, and it’d all be worth it. 
Perhaps it was because of her mother’s lack of affection for her, she couldn’t bear to lose another parent. 
Their divorce should’ve been within her expectations, but no one expects an accident. 
When she asked her father, on the couch one night, why they’d divorced, he’d simply answered, “since women love to complicate stuff.”
It made sense to her at the time. Life was better without her mother, after all. Her nose crinkled, thinking of that wretch. 
Life was better without her. 
Until her dad suffered a stroke. 
Her father on the floor. Her ears ringing. 911 dialled. Flashing red lights. People taking her dad. 
What was happening.
What the fuck was happening. 
The doctors explained perfectly, but she still hated every second spent in the hospital. Her worst fears finally became her reality.
Yet, the building became her home for the next few weeks during visiting hours. 
For days, Ashley stayed at his bedside, holding his hand. This time, she had to treat him with attention. 
For days, she prayed for his recovery, for him to come back. 
He had to, right?
Right?
It took all of her strength to not cry when she called her mom, who said she couldn’t come. "He’d surely be fine," she said, but she wasn’t the one who talked with the doctors every day, wasn’t the one with the knowledge of the death rate for stroke patients. Was it still her mom’s job stopping her, or did she simply not care for her ex-husband anymore?
Ashley didn’t call her mom again. 
Ashley was eating at home late at night when her phone rang. The hospital. 
He was awake. He talked. 
Her dad was back. 
With watery eyes and a relief-flooded heart, she drove to the hospital. Her father was talking again. He’d be fine. 
However, she hesitated before entering his room. The doctors said he might not remember everything, might never remember. She could only hope for the best. 
Ashley stepped in, a smile reaching her face when she entered. Her father looked up at her from his bed. 
“Where’s Marjorie?” he asked. 
Marjorie, his ex-wife, Ashley’s mom. He continued, concern laced in his words, “my wife?”
For a split second, a frown formed on Ashley’s face. It wouldn’t be right to tell him about the divorce, would it? She cringed at the idea: he probably wouldn’t react well to that. She thought to make up something, but, from the raise of his eyebrow, her father probably grew annoyed with her silence already. “Marjorie, uh, won’t—can’t come. Job stuff. Uh, yeah.” 
They only stared at each other for a second before Ashley fixed her gaze on the white ground. The silence weighed on the room; the clock ticking the seconds away. How could she talk to her dad? Did he… even remember her?
“But she’s my wife,” he added after much deliberation. 
What the hell should she answer to that? “She’s, well, not exactly, available right now. In that way.” 
Ashley pursed her lips and took a few steps towards the bed. He had dark circles under his eyes and hollow cheeks. His jaw moved with great difficulty. “Do I know you?”
Oh. He didn’t know her. He didn’t know his daughter. He didn’t know his own daughter. 
He’d forgotten. 
She should’ve expected it. Her throat locked up while her jaw tightened. She’d done and answered many things for her father, but this? She couldn’t answer. 
He was fed up with her lack of answers. “You know what, I don’t care,” he said in a hoarse voice and yet, with that ever constant rhythm. She froze, taken aback. The words resonated in her head. He muttered under his breath, “can’t answer a goddamn question. Of course. Since women love to complicate stuff.”
*The stroke has been dramatized. No one can heal so quickly they suddenly start talking.