First Steps
First Steps (Extended)
The morning sun slipped through the blinds, striping Daniel's face with light. He blinked awake, his mind still buzzing with the words he'd pored over in his father's notebook the night before. Even in sleep, numbers, diagrams, and phrases like compounding leverage and systematic reinvestment had echoed in his dreams.
For the first time in months, he felt a restless energy in his chest, something sharper than grief and stronger than fear: possibility.
Then came the thunder of footsteps.
"Daddy! Pancakes!" Ethan's high-pitched shout rattled down the hall before his small frame barreled into his father's room. His hair stuck up in every direction, a miniature storm cloud of energy, dragging his red race car across the tiled floor. "I am so hungry daddy, my tummy hurts so bad ."
Daniel rubbed a hand across his jaw and gave a tired laugh. "Didn't you eat enough last night to feed an army. But fine. Pancakes."
While Ethan set the table—clattering forks and cups in his chaotic, mismatched way—Daniel cracked eggs into a bowl. His gaze kept drifting to the notebook sitting on the counter. Its worn leather cover caught a sliver of sunlight, like it was watching him, daring him.
Ethan caught him staring. "What's that book, Daddy?"
"Just something of Grandpa's," Daniel said.
"Does it have treasure maps?" Ethan asked, eyes wide.
Daniel smiled faintly. Maybe it does, he thought. Out loud, he said, "Something like that."
⸻
After breakfast and the mad dash to get his son to school, Daniel sat in his car for a moment before turning the key. The question clawed at him: What now?
He could let the notebook collect dust again, the way he had ever since college . Or he could take the first step—no matter how small, no matter how terrifying.
By mid-morning, he was sitting in the polished lobby of First National Bank, the leather-bound notebook tucked under his arm. His palms were damp, and he fought the urge to leave.
The receptionist's voice broke his hesitation. "Mr. Cross? The loan officer will see you now."
Daniel stood, squared his shoulders, and followed her to a tidy office where a young man in a charcoal suit sat behind a desk. He looked barely older than Daniel himself. A brass nameplate read Mr. Jameson.
"Please, have a seat." Jameson's tone was professional but slightly wary. He glanced at Daniel's application. "So, you're requesting a small business loan… but I see you don't exactly have a business yet."
Daniel cleared his throat. "Not yet. But I have a plan."
He pulled the notebook from his bag and slid it across the desk. Jameson raised an eyebrow, then opened it. Pages filled with calculations, diagrams, and strategies stared back at him.
"My father created this system," Daniel explained, leaning forward. "Investment principles, cash-flow structures, reinvestment strategies. He believed it could turn even a modest beginning into something substantial. At the time, It may not seem like it now but i know it has value."
Jameson flipped through, curiosity tugging at his skeptical expression. "And how exactly do you plan to use this?"
Daniel's voice grew steadier. "I want to start a logistics and e-commerce company. Right now, small vendors—craftsmen, local shops—struggle to sell online and get products delivered efficiently. I want to build a platform that connects them with customers and handles delivery. The market is growing, and there's no solid system here yet. I can fill that gap."
Jameson tapped the desk with his pen, studying him. "You realize this is risky. You're recently divorced, your finances aren't… strong, and you don't have collateral for a large loan."
Daniel's stomach tightened, but he didn't back down. "I know. But this isn't about chasing a dream for myself. This is about giving my son a future. I won't let him grow up watching their father give up. If it takes every ounce of fight I have, I'll make this work."
The room was silent for a beat. Jameson finally closed the notebook and exhaled slowly. "I'll be honest. Most people in your position, I'd say no immediately. But…" He tapped the notebook again. "There's something here. And something in the way you're looking at me tells me you mean every word. I'll escalate this to my manager. Don't get your hopes too high, but you might have a shot."
Relief flooded Daniel's chest, tempered by the weight of reality. It wasn't approval—not yet—but it wasn't rejection either.
"Thank you," he said simply.
⸻
The drive to pick his son up from school felt different, lighter somehow. Ethan burst into the car, filling the air with stories about music lessons and a new friend he made in class.
Halfway home, Ethan grew quiet, staring out the window. Then he asked softly, "Daddy… will mommy come back to us?"
The question pierced Daniel like a blade. For a moment, he couldn't speak.
He reached back and ruffled Ethan's hair. "Don't worry even if mommy doesn't come back daddy is still here everything will be okay I promise," he said, his voice firm, but soft at the same time, almost a vow. "We're going to build something great you and me, You'll see."
That night, after his son fell asleep, Daniel sat at the kitchen table with the notebook open in front of him. He sketched out his first business plan—numbers rough, ideas raw, but alive.
The house still felt empty, his mind filled with memories of what once was, But as he worked, Daniel didn't see loss anymore. He saw a foundation.
And he knew, deep down, that his life had just shifted.
This was only the first step..