She turned to go. She stopped for a second, her hand on the glass door. She didn’t turn around.

“I’m still busy, Dad,” she said.

She opened the door and walked out with the little girl. The cold air from outside rushed into the lobby for a second, then the door clicked shut. It was the same sound the front door made sixteen years ago.

I stood there in the silence. Nobody came to help me with the furnace. Nobody came to ask me why I was crying in the middle of a corporate lobby.

I turned around and looked at the sign again. I reached out and touched the glass where her name was etched. It was cold.

I don’t know if I’ll ever go back to that firm. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. I just walked out to my truck, sat in the driver’s seat, and stared at the steering wheel until the sun went down. I’m sitting in my own kitchen now, and the house is so quiet it hurts. I’m holding the phone, and I’m looking at the keypad, and I’m wondering if it’s too late to learn how to dial.