𝑊ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑚 𝐿𝑒𝑓𝑡 𝐵𝑒ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑑 // 𝐹𝑎𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟 𝐹𝑖𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑒 & 𝑒𝑐ℎ𝑜

[echo]

 

[echo]

She sat on the old porch swing, her bare feet nudging back and forth against the weathered wood, the evening wind threading through her long, dark locks. The sky stretched out wide and bruised above her, that vast, endless ceiling of what locals, and well, the world called 'Tornado Alley', where the world always seemed just a little too big, too wild to hold. The air smelled of rain and electricity—sharp, sweet, and strangely... comforting. She had spent seventeen springs growing up beneath these furious skies, where the wind could turn cruel in a breath and the sirens were just another part of life, their wailing songs splitting open the peaceful evenings with the promise of storms. Even as a child, before she truly understood what those sirens meant, she had known to trust the sure, steady hand of her father, wrapping gently but firmly around hers. He would guide her into the tiny downstairs bathroom, where they'd sit on a nest of old pillows, a flashlight clutched between them, waiting for the world to right itself again. Her father had been her shield, her constant, her anchor when everything beyond their thin walls threatened to tear itself apart. Joseph had raised her alone, rough hands learning how to braid fine hair and sew buttons as easily as they once built furniture or repaired busted trucks. She never once felt the absence of a mother, not when she had him. Every scraped knee, every heartbreak, every impossible question—he was her first call, her last word. He was the sun her little world orbited around: steady, warm, unfailing. Other girls at school sketched dreamy boys into the margins of their notebooks, whispered about dances and first kisses, but Lila always felt removed from it. No boy could ever match the quiet strength of her father, the way he made even the scariest moments feel small with nothing more than his presence. Every crush wilted under the impossible standard he had set without even knowing it—the patience in his voice, the steadiness in his hands, the kindness stitched into the corners of his smile. Still, time was a restless river, carving its marks whether you wanted it to or not. Each passing year, she caught herself changing—the lines of her face, the slope of her mouth, becoming sharper, more defined. The soft, growing resemblance was undeniable, staring back at her from the faded, sun-bleached photograph tucked away in the top drawer of her dresser. Her mother's face—bright-eyed, a little reckless, a little wild—was a ghost woven into her reflection. Day by day, she found herself looking more and more like the woman she had never known, but had heard of, only through whispers... Sometimes she caught her father staring a little longer than he meant to, something quiet and heavy flickering behind his kind eyes. It wasn't anger... It wasn't disappointment... It was something more complicated, a kind of sorrow stitched through the love he never stopped offering her. She never asked about it. She had questions—questions about the woman who had walked away when she was still a baby, questions about why being a mother had been too much—but she never found the courage to give them voice. Some instinct told her that the answers might hurt words than the wondering. In the alley where the tornadoes roamed free, life teaches a person to build strong roots or be carried away by the storm. And Lila had grown with rooms deep and tangled into the earth, wrapped tightly around the steady, steady, tireless love of the man who had chosen her over and over again, even when it must have broken something inside him. She loved him for it—not just for the nights spent huddled in the porcelain tub while the houses shook around them, but never quite touching their home, not for the Christmas mornings he somehow made magical or the scraped-together birthday parties—but for every quiet, invisible way he protected her, for every day he kept choosing to stay when others hadn't. He was her first hero, her best friend, and her forever safe place. And no matter how much she started to resemble the woman who once walked away, some deep, unspoken part of her knew one thing with certainty—she would never leave him. But sometimes, life has other plans...

 

[Father Figure]

Joseph was a good man. At times it was necessary to tell a lie to survive in this world and he was more than capable of deluding himself if it was required to do the right thing. As a teenager he had been the quintessential loser, always struggling in school while desperately trying to find himself. As a college student he had been the proverbial party animal, investing his time and effort in discovering how much booze he could swill while still being capable of walking back to his dorm. Puking optional. And in his twenties his devil may care attitude had led to broken hearts, broken dreams, and a multitude of hardships. Including some jail time. And then at the right old age of thirty years old, his daughter was born, and everything in the man’s life changed. For the first time he found himself caring about another human being more than himself, for the first time he recognized that sometimes it did not matter if you were a good man as long as you showed up and did the right thing. The detrimental flaws of his character could be forestalled until; set aside as he stared at himself in the mirror every morning and remembered why he did everything that he had and the reason for it. His amazing daughter, Lila, and he would be damned if he let her down. And thus, for seventeen years he raised her. He went to Alcoholics Anonymous and got sober, he reversed course on his more addictive tendencies, and he even put a stall on his more banal and debased needs. Maybe that was why his wife had left him a couple of years into their marriage. The man she had married had dissipated under the weight of responsibility, and what had emerged no longer held the same thrill and excitement she had been longing for in her youth. Lila’s mother could not be saddled with the burden of offspring and homestead, and in the end set off for greener pastures. If Joseph knew exactly what happened to her, he never told Lila, and their relationship was a steadfast as the firmament on which they walked. The older man did everything he could to give her a stable home, depriving her of nothing even if he were a blue-collar worker, and while she might not have had the frills and pageantry of an upper-class life, what she did have was something more precious. She had love and say what you will about how trite that statement might be, it was a far rarer thing than people supposed. And sometimes he did find himself staring at her, though he would never admit to himself if there was a more uncomfortable reason for that fact. No, most of the time he simply chalked it up to the worry of any father as their daughter grew older. Would she be able to achieve the dreams she had for herself? Would she find someone to love and lead the life that she wished for? Would she leave him, going to college or off into the world, and he would simply be left behind? An old man, with bittersweet memories, idly wondering where the glory days had gone. But – those were thoughts for another day. Right now, a far more pressing concern was in the older man’s mind as he drove his truck home to her, occasionally taking a precarious turn in the process. Rain slashed across his windshield violently. Already weather alerts had come blaring across his phone as the workday ended, and now he rushed home in a mad dash, more than likely endangering himself and other passersby in the process. But he knew Lila was home alone, and as the tornado sirens began to wail he cursed as his tires lost traction turning onto their street. For a brief second his vehicle glided before his tire treads caught once more and he revved his engine to get home.

 

[echo]

The swing creaked softly as Lila pushed herself upright, her thoughts still trailing behind like the last wisps of twilight. The wind had picked up, tugging at her hair as she glanced skyward one last time. The clouds had darkened to a sickly blue-grey, swollen with the promise of trouble. The storm that was brewing was likely to turn ugly. An instinct she had learned from the springs spent in Tornado Alley. She stepped inside the house with a sigh, bare feet padding over the cool tile of the kitchen. It was time to start dinner. Her father would be home soon. Her hands worked almost automatically, peeling potatoes, snapping the ends off a handful of fresh green beans, seasoning the steak just the way he liked it—salt, cracked pepper, and a little garlic, seared fast in a hot cast-iron pan and left to rest just long enough to still bleed pink at the center. Rare to medium rare. He always said anything more than that was a crime against beef. She smiled to herself at the memory, flipping the steak with practised ease. Even as she moved through the rhythm of making dinner, her eyes kept flickering toward the window. The sky had deepened into something angry and ominous while she had been inside, an almost unnatural shade of charcoal, with clouds hanging like bruises. The sirens hadn't started yet, but she didn't trust the silence. It felt like the kind of quiet that always came right before the sky screamed. She moved quickly, setting the green beans to steam and the potatoes to roast before slipping into the hall closet. With practised swiftness, she gathered the essentials: candles, matches, several bottles of water, the two flashlights they kept with fresh batteries tucked beside the emergency radio. Just in case... She paused long enough to glance at the picture of her and her father one the shelf above—taken when she was seven, her missing front teeth beaming in a gap-toothed smile while he held her on his shoulders at the county fair. Her heart pinched. Back in the kitchen, she plated the food with care, drizzling a little butter over the veggies, adding a sprig of rosemary he liked, even though it was mostly for looks. She could hear the wind pressing harder against the house now, branches scraping across the windows like long, brittle fingers. But dinner was ready. He'd have something warm waiting, just like she always did. She stepped out onto the porch again, wearing a pair of worn jean cut-offs and a simple V-neck tee, the hem of it fluttering around her hips as the wind tugged insistently. Her long legs stretched out as she took her place back on the swing, knees pulled slightly together, but her bare toes curling on the wood beneath them. Her eyes moved toward the mailbox without meaning to. The letter was still folded neatly in her room—an acceptance into the university's summer study program. A chance to get a head start on college credits, to meet other students, to start something bigger. She should have felt excited. Instead, the thought of leaving made her stomach twist. Not because she was scared of change, but because she couldn't imagine a day that didn't end with her father pulling into the driveway, the sound of his boots in the mud, the scent of motor oil and aftershave trailing behind him. She wanted to tell him. She would tell him. Maybe. Eventually... The sky above had darkened to near-night despite the hour, and as she squinted into the wind-carved dusk, a familiar shape appeared at the end of their street. Her chest lifted as headlights flickered through the murk, and she stood, brushing her hands down the front of her shorts. His truck rattled down the road, tires slicing through the puddles, engine groaning just a little louder than normal. Her heart skipped. As he pulled into the driveway, she moved down the porch steps and onto the gravel path, her hair whipping across her face as the first drops of rain landed on her cheek. "Hey, Daddy," she called out, smiling despite the storm. "Dinner's ready." The wind showed behind her. But for the moment, she stood steady. Her home was home again...

 

[Father Figure]

It was like the storm came with her father, descending on the homestead just as the headlights of his truck blinked off. The wind began to tug at the trees, beginning to howl as if something were alive. Leaves lifted from the ground, as rain began to fall, a sideways cascade that was thick and stinging on the skin. The heavy ambience of air charged with some thick weight, as the sky above began to roil in malice. This would have been considered the prelude to any major thunderstorm, but they had both felt the unnatural stillness in the air before the onslaught. Anyone from the south could have told you that it was tornado weather, and they were in for a doozy. And there it was, the sound of the sirens rising in a wail that split the air. Urgent and demanding. In the distance a dull roar began to grow, low and grumbling that shook the world, as above them the power lines began to sway wildly, and the streetlights flickered in response. If a tornado had not landed yet, it was bound to do so, and while most country bumpkins would recklessly stand outside during poor weather conditions, every one of them knew when it was time to turn their tail and run for cover. And it was time. When her father got out of his car he stumbled, just mildly, a telltale sign as to the force of debris coming off the ground and slapping him in the face. One arm raised to block any dirt, trying to keep his eyes protected as he beelined for the house. He knew he did not have to say anything to his daughter, she would know the danger they found themselves in, but he tried regardless. Anything he voiced, however, was simply swallowed by the torrential downpour that shattered the sky. Nearby one of electric transformer sizzled, snapping with power, before shorting out and plunging the street into complete darkness as he reached her. And with one strong arm wrapping around her willowy frame, he ushed them into the relative safety of their household, even though they both knew safety was a very relative term currently. As soon as they crossed the threshold, she could hear him again, his voice holding that determined command that could only come from a parent. “Get to the bathroom! Hurry now, hurry!” The sirens continued to wail as he turned and bodily shoved the front door shut, bracing it with his shoulder so that he could get the lock in place before turning to move after her. Feet slapping against the wood floors as they moved deeper into the home, to the first-floor bathroom. Luckily for their sake, familiarity took over as they scampered through dark hallways, preventing them from running into anything. Lila was smart enough to have placed some candles in the bathroom, the flickering glow giving a point of reference as he followed her inside, turning and shutting the door with the snick of an inner lock. Not that such an action would do much to protect them. No, the safest bet was getting into the tub and covering themselves up, which soon enough they accomplished, leaving them pressed together in a tangle of limbs, blanket over the top of them, as the cataclysmic storm continued its assault on the building. But at least the moment was a reprieve of sorts, a brief respite, and only then did her father say more. This time with a mild attempt at what could only be defined as Dad humor. “So, what’s for dinner?”