"Incredible. Sensational," he pronounced. "Best cookie I've ever had. Could I maybe have another?"
Pride bloomed in my chest, warm and bright. I'd made something good. Something Daddy liked. "You can have two more. But save one for me."
"Deal."
We had our tea party, him asking me questions about my cooking process and me explaining very seriously about how you had to turn the knobs just right and make sure the cookies didn't burn. He listened to every word like it mattered. Like I mattered.
When the tea party was done, I noticed the art supplies in the corner. Paints. Paper. The kind of mess that usually made grown-ups mad.
"Can I paint?" I asked, looking at Daddy for permission.
"Of course. Want some help setting up?"
We spread out the paper on the floor—big sheets that Daddy said I could get as messy as I wanted. The paints were in squeeze bottles, bright colors that looked like rainbow and happiness. I picked purple first because purple was my favorite, squeezing a blob onto the paper.
"Like this?" I asked.
"However you want," Daddy said. "There's no wrong way to make art."
So I made art. Squeezed colors onto paper and smooshed them around with my hands, feeling the paint squish between my fingers. It was cold and wet and kind of slimy but in a good way. I added blue. Then yellow. Then red until all the colors mixed together in the middle.
"It's a garden," I explained, using my whole hand to spread purple across the top. "With sky and flowers and maybe a butterfly. See?"
"I see it," Daddy said. "It's beautiful."
I looked at my hands—completely covered in paint, multiple colors mixed together. Then I looked at Daddy, an idea forming.
"Can I put some on you?" I asked shyly.
"On me?"
I nodded. "So you're part of the art too."
His smile was bright enough to rival the sun. "I'd be honored to be part of your art."
I reached out very carefully and pressed my paint-covered hand to his cheek, leaving a print in rainbow colors. He didn't flinch. Didn't complain. Just smiled at me like this was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
"Perfect," he said. "Now I'm a masterpiece too."
We painted for a while longer—me making handprints and swirls, Daddy occasionally adding a dot or line when I asked him to help. The paper became covered in color and joy and the evidence that I was allowed to be messy without consequence.
When my arms started getting tired, Daddy helped me wash up at the bathroom sink. The paint came off easily with warm water and soap, swirling down the drain in colorful spirals. He dried my hands carefully with a soft towel, paying attention to each finger like they were important.
"Story time?" he suggested.
I nodded, suddenly aware of how tired I was. Playing was exhausting in the best way—like my body had used up all its energy on joy and now needed to rest.
The reading nook was perfect. Daddy settled into the rocking chair and pulled me into his lap, and I curled against him like a cat finding the warmest spot. The bookshelf next to us was packed with picture books—bright covers with animals and adventures.
"Pick one," Daddy said.
I chose a book about a brave little mouse who went on an adventure. Daddy read in his storytelling voice—different voices for different characters, making the mouse squeak and the owl hoot. I listened with my whole body, my thumb finding its way to my mouth without me deciding to put it there.
Sucking my thumb. I hadn't done that since Sergei. It was babyish. But it felt . . . good. Safe. And Daddy didn't sayanything. Just kept reading and stroking my hair like this was completely normal. Like I was allowed to be this small.
We read three books. Then four. I was floating in that perfect space where I wasn't quite sleepy but wasn't quite awake either. Just existing in the moment, safe in Daddy's arms while he read me stories about brave creatures and magical places.
"Is baby girl hungry?" he asked eventually.
