“240,000 dollars? US dollars? Bloody hell...”

I shook my head as I locked my phone and slipped it back into my pocket.

According to the article, a man in New York had already dropped 240K USD on ARIA Online. ARIA Online, the new fantasy VR-MMO that can’t even be played yet. Apparently, the man had spent all that money on character creation alone.

And here I was, on the other side of the world, stressing out over the 3000 Yen I had to pay for the eleven pound bag of rice sitting in my shopping basket.

I found myself recalling one of Natsumi’s favorite sayings: “The more you think about it, the more unfair the world seems.”

When she was still alive, when we lived in the States and had our own home... before I forgot the sound of her voice, and when we spent our days in each other’s arms…

Once upon a time, I had been happy.

And when I had been happy, those words of hers had always fallen on deaf ears.

“Cheer up,” I’d tell her. “There’s no point thinking about things you can’t change.”

How the tables had turned. These days, I found myself constantly thinking about things I couldn’t change. Not on the scale that she had, no. Where her heart had always broken for the great injustices of the world, my heart always focused on smaller, more selfish things.

Things like how much I wished Natsumi, the love of my life, was still by my side. Or how much I wanted a better job in this hurting economy. How I wished I had made different choices, so that the scars on my person would be fewer and further between.

I could not change any of these things.

I could not bring Natsumi back to life. I could not change my skills or what they were worth. I could not change the past.

Life was not a game, after all.

And yet, despite all these things, I was thankful. I had been blessed with at least one last reason to live.

“Daddy, daddy! Can we get these?”

My young daughter, Emi, was a few feet ahead of me. She had one hand on the edge of an island freezer and was pointing at something inside it with the other. She bounced a little on the balls of her feet and was looking straight at me, her eyes wide with excitement.

I smiled and made my way over to her.

“What did you find?”

“Look, look!”

I’d never seen her this worked up over food before. Even ice cream couldn’t make her eyes light up like there were doing now. I raised an eyebrow, but decided to humor her. I looked down at where she was pointing.

Chicken pot pie.

I had heard once from acquaintances that grocery stores in Tokyo sometimes sold the stuff. But never, in four whole years, had I ever seen a single chicken pot pie in the entirety of Ishikawa prefecture.

“It’s your favorite! I remember!”

And she was right. Long ago, in a different chapter of my life, I had adored my mother’s chicken pot pies. Baked to perfection, the golden crust would crumble under the pressure of my fork. When the pie broke open, the broth would spill out, bringing along with it the delicious aroma of slow-cooked chicken complemented with mushroom, carrot, and thyme.

Then it became Natsumi’s pies. She’d borrowed my mother’s recipes, but she would add her own flair to them. As a result, her chicken pot pies always contained an odd, but refreshing, kick. For the longest time, I didn’t know what it was she was adding – I eventually figured out that she’d been baking wasabi powder into the shell. By that point though, the weirdness of it had been offset by how accustomed I had grown to its taste.

Honestly, I was rather surprised that Emi remembered my love for chicken pot pie at all. She was only around four years old the last time we’d had it. Nonetheless, this moment brought a warmth to my heart; there was nothing quite like the thought of your eight year old child putting your interests before their own.

“You’re right, it is my favorite. But are you sure you don’t want something else? Curry, maybe? I don’t think you liked these pies so much when you were younger.”

Without any hesitation, she nodded her head.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

I sighed.

My daughter looked at me expectantly, and I glanced at the price marker.

2000 yen each.

It could be worse.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Alright, grab two of ‘em.”

“Yay!”

She reached her little hands into the freezer and picked the two boxes sitting at the top of the pile of pies. With a wide grin on her face, she turned to me and offered me one of them.

Naturally, I accepted it.

“Do you want to put yours in the basket?”

“No. I want to hold it.”

“Okay. Well, that'll take care of tonight’s dinner. And this should be enough rice for a while. Alrighty, I think we’re ready to go. Let’s line up at the cash register, Emi.”

We made our way to the back of the line, and I examined my pie box while we waited.

Microwavable Chicken Pot Pie. Classic American Style, “Just Like Mama Used to Make.” 100% real chicken broth and white breast meat, with broccoli, celery, carrot, and mushroom for vegetables. “Break one open and enjoy the taste of home.” “Kids will love it.” The various descriptors, in tandem with the picture on the box, did wonders for hyping up my evening’s meal. Of course, I was under no illusion that the pie would actually be anything close to what my mother used to make. But be that as it may… chicken pot pie is chicken pot pie.

“Next, please.”

The cashier, an elderly, bespectacled man who ran the shop together with his wife, dipped his head slightly as I approached. I had bought my groceries almost exclusively at his store since moving to Kanazawa, and one could say that our small families had grown rather close.

“Good afternoon, Akagi-san.”

I returned his gesture.

“Afternoon, Maruyama-san.”

“How are you?”

“Fine, thank you. And yourself?”

“Living the dream, living the dream. Always have been, always will be.”

I chuckled as I placed my items on the counter. I motioned with a tilt of the head for Emi to place her pie on the counter as well. She quickly obliged, acting with a sense of hurry that was entirely overblown for the situation.

Maruyama smiled warmly at her as he watched. She beamed back up at him.

“Did you find everything okay?”

“Yes, Maruyama-san!”

I half expected her to salute the old man. She didn’t.

“Good, good! Now, let’s see… Rice… thank the gods for rice… and chicken pot pies.”

He sniffed and then paused, appearing to contemplate for a moment.

“Sorry for intruding, but I heard your little exchange earlier. These pies are your favorite?”

“Ah.”

I laughed awkwardly, and perhaps a bit sheepishly as well.

“Yes, yes they are. I used to eat them a lot, but I wasn’t the one making them. I can’t really bake and… you know. I'd like to buy these microwavable ones more often, but this is the first time I’ve run into them since coming to Japan.”

“Is that so? If you’d like, I can start stocking these regularly.”

“Oh, Maruyama-san. I couldn’t.”

“Don’t worry, it won’t be much trouble at all. Besides, you’re not the first one to buy some. It’s a novel item, and I’ve already sold quite a few.”

I didn’t know how to respond. While I struggled to find the right words, biting my lower lip, Emi cut in.

“Yes please, Maruyama-san! Daddy really loves these. Mama… mama used to make them for us.”

And that did it for the old man.

“Well, I believe there’s nothing more to be said here, Akagi-san. Chicken pot pies you want, and chicken pot pies there shall be. And you –“

He raised his hand to eye level and pointed a finger at Emi, wagging it in an almost childlike manner as he did so.

“Can get a discount.”

“Yay!”

“Maruyama-san –“

“On second thought, you get a discount too.”

“Maruyama-san…”

The old man turned to me and looked me dead in the eyes. It was a sudden change, but the playful cheer from just moments earlier was gone; his expression had become a serious one.

“Please. Let me do this for you.”

I knew at that point that there was no use arguing.

Not that I was unhappy or anything about how things had turned out. In fact, I was silently thrilled. After all these years, chicken pot pie was finally back on the menu.

“Thank you.”

The tension in his face receded.

“Not at all, Akagi-san. Not at all.”

I made a slight bow. Nodding a quick acknowledgement and without another word, Maruyama took the items from where we’d placed them and swiped them over his scanner. Boop. Boop. A short pause, as the bag of rice took more effort to move. Boop.

“5000 Yen.”

So be it.

I handed him the money and received two plastic bags in return. One contained the rice and the other, the pies.

“Sweetie? Would you do the honors?”

I lifted the second bag off of the counter and gave it a little shake. The frozen pies made a satisfying sound as they bounced around the inside of their thin cardboard boxes.

Emi nodded her head up and down with the same exaggerated movements as before. When she stopped, it occurred to me that it seemed like she was trying hard to put on an act of some kind. Her lips were pressed together and her jaw was clenched; her brow was slightly furled in thinly-veiled concentration. Puzzled and unable to understand this behavior, I gave her a quizzical look before reaching out my arm to hand the bag to her. She snatched it from me, cupped it in her arms, and hugged it to her chest.

Well, whatever.

I turned back to Maruyama-san, still filled with an overwhelming sense that I wasn’t quite deserving of this kindness he was showing me. Moreover, this was hardly the first time, and I’d done little for him and his wife in return.

His expression told me he knew exactly what I was thinking. The dimples in his cheeks and the soft wrinkles around his eyes, however, told me also that he couldn’t disagree with me more. Somehow, this man had seen great value where my own eyes could not.

Where I considered myself nothing more than a rusty cog in the machine, he saw me as a loving father, struggling and pushing through day by day for nothing but his daughter’s sake.

He spoke before I could.

“Akagi-san. Keep fighting. For Emi, keep fighting.”

Warmth.

“I will... Thank you again.”

I bowed once more and, wishing to leave before my emotions got the better of me, quickly made to exit the store. I walked only a few feet before turning halfway around, having realized that Emi wasn't yet following me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Maruyama-san gave Emi a big thumbs up, one that he tried, but failed, to hide behind his register. They exchanged winks.

Ah. So that was it. That’s why he’d known to stock those pies in the first place.

I was on the verge of tears.

Her face glowing with innocent joy, Emi gave the old man a sweet little wave. She then turned towards me and half-skipped across the short distance that had separated us, her dark brown hair bouncing up and down around her shoulders all the while. No longer cupping the bag of pies and instead holding it with her right hand, she reached out her left so that I could take it.

I did.

Warmth.

My one last reason to live.

I did not know if she knew, but she was my anchor. For years, the storms of life had tossed me around. Wave after wave had come crashing down, all threatening to sink me in the depths of my despair. But after all was said and done, I had not gone adrift. Here I still was. Time after time, her love for me, her gentle heart and her sunny smile, saved me from myself.

I closed my eyes.

The spring in her walk. The lilt in her voice. She was truly her mother’s daughter.

Her mother’s… and mine.

In that moment, I realized I’d been wrong. All this time, I’d been lying to myself.

Once upon a time, I had been happy. That was true.

But the thing was…

I'd never stopped.