Flashlight

By Susan Choi

“I don’t care. I hate swimming.”

They both know that the opposite is true. Perhaps her father recognizes her comment for what it partly is — a declaration of loyalty to him — as well as for what it mostly is: a declaration by a ten-year-old child who is contentious by reflex, without any reason. Far out over the water, far beyond where the breakwater joins with a thin spit of sand, the sunset has lost all its warmth and is only a paleness against the horizon. They’ll turn back soon.

“I never learned to swim,” her father reveals.

“Why?” This time her tone is surprised, her question genuine.

“Because I grew up a poor boy. I had no Y.M.C.A.”

“The Y.M.C.A. is disgusting. I hate going there.”

“Someday you’ll feel thankful to your mother. But I want you to act thankful now.”

These are the last words he ever says to her.

(Or are they just the last words that she can remember? Did he say something more? There is no one to ask.) Read (and hear) more at the New Yorker.