Liam stepped into the doorway then, his heart constricting at the sight of his daughter’s tear-streaked face. “I’m right here, pumpkin.”
Hailey’s face lit up, then clouded with uncertainty, as if she expected him to refuse.
“Daddy!” She held out her arms hopefully, and Liam crossed the room in three long strides, gathering her into a hug that felt like both redemption and accusation.
Sunny stood, offering him a small, sad smile. “I’ll leave you three alone,” she murmured, moving toward the door.
As she passed him, Liam caught her hand, a brief moment of connection. “Thank you,” he whispered, unable to articulate everything he meant by those two simple words.
She nodded, gently withdrawing her hand from his grip. “Goodnight, Liam.”
For the next twenty minutes, Liam lay beside Hailey, listening to her sleepy account of her day at school, her fears about the monster in her dream, her hopes for the weekend ahead. He stroked her hair, just as Sunny had been doing, marveling at its silky texture, the perfect curve of her small ear, the trust in her drowsy eyes.
When she finally drifted back to sleep, he kissed her forehead and carefully extricated himself from her bed.
In the hallway, he paused, torn between seeking out Sunny and retreating to the solitude of his office. The thought of facing her — of seeing the hurt and disappointment in her eyes, of attempting to explain his inexplicable behavior — was almost unbearable.
With a heavy sigh, he headed to his office, closing the door firmly behind him.
The familiar surroundings — the desk piled with papers, the walls adorned with team memorabilia, the shelf of trophies gathering dust — offered no comfort tonight. He sank into his chair, powering up his laptop with mechanical movements.
Game footage filled the screen, plays from last season that he had watched a hundred times before. He focused on the moving figures with singular intensity, as if the answers to life’s most profound questions could be found in the X’s and O’s of hockey strategy.
Hours passed. The house settled into deeper silence around him. His eyes burned from staring at the screen, his back ached from hunching over the desk, and still he pushed on, using work as a shield against the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
A soft knock at the door finally broke his concentration.
“Liam?” Sunny’s voice, hesitant but determined. “Can we talk?”
He glanced at the clock — 3:17 AM. She should have been asleep hours ago.
“Come in,” he called, not looking up from his laptop.
The door opened slowly. Sunny stood in the threshold, hair tousled from restless sleep, wearing an oversized T-shirt that fell to mid-thigh. She looked both vulnerable and resolute, her jaw set despite the weariness in her eyes.
“It’s late,” he said unnecessarily. “You should be in bed.”
“So should you.”
When he didn’t respond, she stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind her. “Liam, we can’t go on like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like strangers passing in the night. Like the past few months never happened.” She moved closer, perching on the edge of his desk. “Like we didn’t lose a child together.”
Liam’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I know you don’t. But we need to.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “If not with each other, then with someone. A counselor, maybe. Your parents. Anyone.”
“There’s nothing to say,” he insisted, eyes still fixed on the screen. “It happened. It’s over.”
“Is it?” Sunny leaned forward, entering his line of sight. “Because it doesn’t feel over to me. And I don’t think it feels over to you either.”
He finally looked up, meeting her gaze directly for the first time in days. The raw emotion he saw there — grief, yes, but also determination, compassion, even love — was almost his undoing.
“I can’t…” he began, then faltered, unsure how to put into words the tangled mess of emotions churning inside him.
“Can’t what, Liam?” she pressed softly.
