That night, we had Kaylee’s party at the house.
My sister, Joanne, drove in from Canyon. She’s a dispatcher for the Randall County Sheriff’s Office, and she walked through my front door in her uniform jacket because she’d come straight from her shift.
Amy’s parents drove in from Lubbock. Frank and Carol Hollis. Frank is a retired oil field foreman, six foot three and still built like a refrigerator at 71. Carol taught piano for forty years and still holds her purse like it’s a hymnal.
They hadn’t been to the house since Thanksgiving. Tara had told them Kaylee was sick with the flu and didn’t want company.
Carol hugged Kaylee in the doorway for a long time. When she let go, she held her granddaughter at arm’s length and looked at her face. I watched her eyes go over Kaylee’s sharp cheekbones. Her cracked lips.
“Honey,” Carol said quietly. “Have you been eating?”
“I’m fine, Grandma,” Kaylee said.
Carol looked at me over Kaylee’s shoulder. I gave her one small shake of my head. Not now.
She understood. She’d raised Amy. She knew what that look meant.
Tara made a big show of everything. She’d ordered a fancy sheet cake from the bakery to sit beside my grocery store strawberry one. She put on music. She kept her hand on Kaylee’s shoulder whenever anybody was looking.
“Sixteen!” she kept saying. “Can you believe it? My sweet girl.”
Rick stood in the kitchen with a beer, laughing too loud at nothing.
Kaylee sat beside me at the dining room table in a gray hoodie that was two sizes too big for her now. She hadn’t said one word all day. She just sat there with both hands in her front pocket.
At about a quarter to eight, Tara lit the candles on the bakery cake. Sixteen of them, plus one to grow on.
Then she looked at the cooler by the back door.
“Oh, shoot,” she said brightly. “We’re almost out of ice. Rick, come help me grab the bag out of the garage freezer.”
“I’ll get it,” I said, half standing.
“No, no, you sit, birthday daddy.” She patted my shoulder. “We’ll be right back.”
She and Rick slipped out through the kitchen and into the garage. The door clicked shut behind them.
Kaylee reached into her hoodie pocket.
She pulled out the baby monitor. The parent unit. The same one that had been taped to the camper wall. She slid it across the table to me, slow, right between the strawberry cake and the bakery cake, with the candles still burning.
“Now, Dad,” she whispered. “Turn it up.”
Specialty: Quiet Comebacks & Personal Justice
David Reynolds focuses on stories where underestimated individuals regain control of their lives. His writing centers on measured decisions rather than dramatic outbursts — emphasizing preparation, patience, and the long game. His characters don’t shout; they act.