Chapter 2 — Graham’s Struggles

Graham

The city spread out before him like a glittering map, each light in the skyline a tiny reminder of his responsibility. Graham Callahan stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse, one hand resting on the cool glass, the other adjusting the leather strap of his wristwatch. The rhythmic ticking against his skin felt like a metronome, counting down moments he couldn’t seem to hold onto. Below, the faint hum of traffic rose and fell, a distant echo of the world moving on without him.

Behind him, the penthouse was still, its silence broken only by the muffled sound of Sophie’s small feet shuffling across the hardwood floors. The open-plan living room stretched out in muted shades of gray and blue, every surface immaculate, every corner devoid of warmth. The large dining table sat empty, the chairs perfectly aligned, like a tableau of order that dared not be disturbed. It was a space designed for efficiency and presentation, not for the messy tangles of family life.

A framed photo on a nearby shelf caught his eye—a candid shot of Maria laughing with Sophie, both of them holding hands at the beach. The sunlight in the picture seemed to mock the cold sterility of the room around him. He stepped closer, touching the edge of the frame with his fingertips. He could almost hear Maria’s voice in his head, teasing him for always being so serious, so focused on work.

“Don’t forget to laugh with her,” she’d said once, after Sophie had stormed into the room in a fit of giggles, her arms full of stuffed animals. “She’ll remember the laughter more than anything else.”

A pang of guilt tightened his chest. He looked away, his gaze landing on the couch where Sophie sat curled up, her knees drawn to her chest, her sketchbook balanced precariously on her thighs. Her dark curls fell over her face as she focused intently on the page, her small hands gripping a crayon. The faint scrape of wax against paper was the only other sound in the room.

Graham watched her from a distance, unsure whether to approach. Every attempt he’d made to connect with her since Maria’s death seemed to slide off her like raindrops on glass. She’d retreat further into herself, into her drawings, into the silence that had settled between them like fog.

“Sophie,” he said finally, his voice low but careful. He stepped closer, the sound of his polished shoes against the floor sharp in the quiet.

She didn’t look up. Her crayon swept in looping arcs across the page, a burst of blue against the sea of black and gray that dominated her recent drawings.

He crouched slightly to meet her level. “What are you working on?”

This time, she paused, her small shoulders stiffening. Slowly, she tilted the sketchbook just enough for him to see. It was another picture of the clearing behind her grandparents’ house—a place she seemed to retreat to not just physically, but in her mind as well. The trees were tall and dark, their outlines jagged, but the center of the drawing was filled with painted stones, each one bright and vivid.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, and he meant it. Sophie’s talent amazed him, though it also left him feeling inadequate, as if her drawings were a language he didn’t know how to speak.

She shrugged, her curls bouncing slightly. “It’s not finished.”

“You could show me sometime,” he ventured. “The place in your drawing. We could go together.”

Her gaze flicked up to him then, those piercing blue eyes so much like his own. For a moment, he thought she might say something, that she might let him in. Her lips quirked slightly, almost a smile, but then she turned back to her sketchbook, her walls going up again.

“Maybe,” she said softly, her tone making it clear the answer was no.

Graham straightened, the weight of failure settling over him like a familiar coat. He glanced at the sleek clock above the fireplace. Nearly 7 p.m. He should have been prepping for tomorrow’s board meeting, reviewing the latest quarterly reports, but the thought of retreating to his home office felt hollow. Instead, he turned toward the kitchen, running a hand through his hair as he tried to remember the last time they’d eaten dinner together.

The fridge was stocked, though not by him. His housekeeper, Mrs. Alvarez, had been dutiful in her care, ensuring that everything was as it should be. Graham stared at the neatly stacked containers of prepped meals, his hands resting on the cold edges of the open door. He reached for one—chicken and vegetables, simple and healthy—then hesitated.

“Do you want something else?” he called out to Sophie.

“No,” came her small voice from the living room.

He set the container on the counter anyway, peeling back the lid and transferring the food onto a plate. As the microwave hummed to life, he leaned against the counter, his eyes drifting back toward the window. The skyline glittered, indifferent to his struggles.

The microwave beeped, a sharp, insistent sound that broke the stillness. Graham carried the plate to the dining table, setting it down at one end. “Sophie,” he called again, his tone firmer this time.

She hesitated but eventually slid off the couch, clutching her sketchbook as if it were a shield. She climbed onto the chair across from him, her feet barely touching the floor, and set the sketchbook on the table.

“How was your day?” he asked, pushing the plate toward her.

She picked at the vegetables with her fork, her eyes downcast. “It was fine.”

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair again. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Maria had been the one who knew how to break through Sophie’s silences, who could coax a laugh out of her with a silly story or a gentle touch. Graham had always been the provider, the one who made sure everything was in order. But now the roles had shifted, and he was failing at the one thing that mattered most.

“Maybe we could go to the park this weekend,” he tried. “Or the museum. You used to love the dinosaur exhibit.”

Her fork stilled, the tines pressing into a piece of chicken. “That was when Mom was here,” she said quietly.

The words hit him like a physical blow, and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. A memory surfaced—Maria crouched in front of Sophie at that very exhibit, pointing to a towering skeleton and laughing as Sophie mimicked a dinosaur’s roar. The sound of their laughter had filled the air, a rare moment of pure joy.

“I know,” he said finally, his voice rough. “I miss her too.”

Sophie didn’t respond. She set her fork down and slid off the chair, her sketchbook tucked under her arm as she padded back to the couch.

“Goodnight, Dad,” she said over her shoulder, her voice barely audible.

Graham sat alone at the table, his appetite gone. The ticking of his wristwatch seemed louder now, the sound filling the empty spaces in the room. He glanced at the plate of untouched food, then at the chair Sophie had vacated.

He had built an empire, navigated hostile takeovers, and stood at the helm of one of the most powerful companies in the city. Yet here, in the quiet of his home, he felt utterly powerless.

Rising from the table, he walked to the window once more, the city’s lights blurring as his vision clouded. He thought of the custody battle ahead, of the accusations Evelyn and Richard would hurl at him in court. He thought of Maria’s foundation, sitting untouched, a testament to all the ways he’d failed her memory.

They weren’t wrong—he had been consumed by work, by the need to keep everything running smoothly after Maria’s death. But he couldn’t let them take Sophie from him.

Somehow, he had to fix this.

He considered picking up his phone, researching therapists or even calling Dr. Reyes, the court-appointed family therapist. He hesitated, his hand hovering over his phone before pulling back. Tomorrow, he told himself. Tomorrow, he would fight. For Sophie. For Maria. For the family he still hoped to rebuild.

For now, though, he let the silence settle around him, the city’s distant hum a reminder that time would not wait for him to catch up.