And there it is… the question I’ve been asking myself, I decide to throw at my daughter. How mature. Not that her answer would make or break my decision, but her opinion does matter, especially because I’ve never dated a man before.
Her back stiffens. “Seriously, Dad?”
Okay.Notthe answer I was expecting.
I shift upward, scooting back against the headboard and fluffing a pillow behind me. “Yes, seriously.”
Emilee avoids my eyes, fiddling with a loose thread on her pajama pants. “Ana says she thinks it would be really cool.”
“I didn’t ask what Ana thinks.”
She swings her legs back onto the bed, crosses them underneath her, and reaches for my hand. “I think I like him better than Mom,” she admits, staring longingly at the puzzle piece tattooed on my wrist. Her delicate fingers trace the edges of the ink.
“Em?” I gently slip my fingers beneath her chin and tilt her face to mine. “It’s okay to feel that way. And if it helps…” I lower my voice, leaning in a little. “I think I like him better too.”
I wink, and love how it brings a genuine smile to her face.
“I wish I knew why your mom walked out on us. It was a selfish act, and I’ve spent the past eight years trying to make sense of it. But I still don’t have an answer, sweetheart.”
Her eyes drop back to the tattoo—the solitary puzzle piece on my wrist, separate from the ones inked across my back.
“I know, Dad. I just wish we knewwhyshe did this.” Her voice is soft, frayed at the edges. “I get that she was an artist, but why have her artwork tattooed on your body? It just… doesn’t make sense. But what do I know? At least she left you with something to remember her by. She didn’t do that for me.”
She trails off, and I reach for her hand, gently slotting our fingers together.
“Your mother loved you, Em. You have to believe me when I tell you that. I can’t speak for her actions though. I never saw this coming either. But you know what, sweetheart?”
She looks up at me, eyes wide, waiting.
“I don’t wonder anymore. Not about her reasons for leaving, or the meaning behind the puzzle pieces. As far as I’m concerned, Em… it’s just art. And many times, art remains a mystery. It means different things to different people. Sometimes it’s just meant to exist.”
“Gabriel is an artist,” she remarks absently, a touch of fondness in her voice.
“Is that so? I thought Elijah told me he was an interior designer?”
She sighs, somewhat theatrically, like I just asked what season we’re in. “But he sketches his ideas first, Dad.”
Well then. Apparently, I don’t know shit.
“Hm. I guess you’re right.”
“And,” she continues, spirit brightening. “He designs the decorations for our school dances every year.”
“He does?” That’s definitely news to me.
“Remember the dragon last year? The one that stretched from the parking lot all the way to Maynard Hall?”
I laugh, thinking back to that specific day, remembering how creative I thought the artist had been. “How could I forget? We had to enter through a mouthful of flames and basically walk across fire to get into the dance hall. It was pretty cool.”
“I know, right?” She giggles. “He makes a lot of cool things.”
She uncrosses her legs and swings them back over the side of the bed… and then adds, “Elijah is cool too, Dad. Maybe notquiteas cool as Gabriel, but… well, I like him too.”
And that’s enough of an answer for me. I reach over and pull my daughter into my arms, kissing the top of her head. “I love you, kiddo.”
“Love you too, Dad.” She giggles, kissing my cheek and squirming out of my hold. “Oh, and thanks for allowing me to go to Spain with Ana.”
She springs up from the mattress, halfway to the door already.
