He was seventy-two when the neighborhood started noticing him, but the story did not begin at seventy-two. It began with a promise made when his daughter’s feet still swung above the pavement and her backpack looked too big for her shoulders. His name was Walter Haines, a man who spent most of his life doing what many fathers do—working, rushing, believing there would always be “later.
For years, Walter picked her up after school at a small bus stop on Alder Street. He was rarely early, but he was always there. His daughter, Lily, treated time like a rule, not a suggestion.
The article is not finished. Click on the next page to continue.
The article is not finished. Click on the next page to continue.
Next page
