Tim Stanfield holds the last remaining mug to pack into a brown cardboard box destined for Goodwill.  The sentiment of a "world's greatest dad" mug seems hollow now, but Tim remembers the day little Annie presented it to him, wearing a beaming grin on her 8 year-old face.  At that moment, 9 years ago, he owned the title of greatest dad -- at least in his daughter's eyes.  He lived the dream, down to the last clichè.  He believed nothing could change.

    Hundreds of gallons of coffee passed through the mug, which spent most of its days in Tim's office in the city.  It rarely appeared at home, except when Tim had to drink one more cup to stay awake on late-night commutes from work.  Whenever she noticed the mug at home, Annie would comment about how much the cartoon character resembled her dad, only without the smile.  Tim stopped bringing the mug home.  He worried less about commuting at night, opting to stay in a small apartment in the city instead.  It would be less stressful for everyone, and he'd be more awake and relaxed on the weekends, which he'd spend taking Annie to museums or jungle gyms.  Not every weekend, though.  There were demands and responsibilities.  He couldn't just leave on short notice.  He had direct reports relying on him.

    Annie grew up, and away.  There were no more gifts of piano key neck ties, heart-shaped cookies, or hand-made construction paper cards.  There were no hugs; certainly no kisses.  When he arrived home, Tim could hope to see a scowl from Annie, at least, but would often hear a door slam, and nothing else.  Two doors, if Tim counted Annie's mother's bedroom.  But he didn't.

    He pauses for a moment before wrapping the mug in last week's newspaper.  Tim imagines sitting down with Annie someday over a pot of coffee, laughing about how long he's held on to such a silly gift and remembering all of the fond times they never spent together.  He wonders if he should keep the mug in case that meeting with Annie ever comes, as if merely possessing it would be enough to prove his love.  As if years of neglect could be wiped away with a laugh about stubbornly retaining a single mug for so long.  As if Annie even thought of him any more.

    Tim continues wrapping, packs the mug next to the empty picture frames, faded t-shirts, and hideous ties, and seals the box with four strips of masking tape -- two vertical and two horizontal.  He carefully places it on the floor and begins to unfold an identical, plain, brown box.