“Meeeeee . . .” Poppy babbles and claps her hands. She gets down from Levi’s lap and waddles over to me, standing between me and Rye, but looking at Rye.
“I think she likes you,” I say quietly to Rye.
Her eyes meet mine and I want to tell her that Poppy’s uncle likes her too, but I don’t. Family dinner is enough for right now.
rye
. . .
I wakeup at six thirty without an alarm, sunlight barely touching the edges of my blackout curtains. My phone sits on the nightstand, screen dark, and I reach for it out of habit before stopping myself.
Not today.
Today I’m going to be Lily’s mom. Just that. No emails, no venue emergencies, no thoughts about musicians with calloused fingers and voices that make my chest tighten. No Darian. No work. Just me and my girl.
I’ve been a terrible mother for weeks. Every time I catch Lily watching me with careful eyes, I know she’s learned to predict when I’ll be distracted or unavailable. She shouldn’t have to work around my moods.
I slip out of bed and pad to the kitchen in bare feet, pulling ingredients from the refrigerator with purpose. Real breakfast. Not drive-through bags or toaster pastries grabbed on the way out the door, but actual eggs and bacon and pancakes from scratch. The kind of breakfast that requires presence and attention and the luxury of time.
The coffee maker gurgles to life as I crack eggs into a mixing bowl. Lily’s favorite pancakes require buttermilk and vanilla, a recipe my mom taught me during one of her extended stays after Lily was born. I haven’t made them in months.
The bacon sizzles in the cast-iron skillet when I hear footsteps on the stairs. Lily appears in the doorway wearing pajamas covered in musical notes, hair sticking up everywhere.
“You’re cooking,” she observes, voice thick with sleep and surprise.
“I am.”
“Real cooking. With the stove and everything.”
“Yep.” I flip the bacon, letting the grease pop and hiss. “And we’re having a day. Just us.”
Lily approaches slowly. She’s learned not to trust my big plans because I start excited and quit fast.
“What about The Songbird?”
“Jovie can handle it.”
“What about your meetings?”
“Rescheduled them.”
She climbs onto the bar stool at the kitchen island, tucking her feet under herself. “What about . . .?”
“What about nothing. Today is about you and me. No phones, no work, no distractions.” I pour pancake batter onto the griddle, watching bubbles form on the surface. “We’re going to get our nails done, maybe do some shopping, see where the day takes us.”
“Really?”
The hope in her voice hurts. When did my complete attention become something special instead of normal?
“Really.”
Lily watches me cook with complete focus. She’s memorizing this moment because she knows it might not happen again.
We eat breakfast at the kitchen table instead of the bar counter, talking about camp and her upcoming recital and the book she’s reading about a girl who finds a magical guitar. Normal conversation that doesn’t require careful navigation around my moods or scheduling around my availability.
“Where do you want to go first?” I ask, collecting our empty plates.
“Can we get our nails done at that place with the music names?”
