SPENCER
I don’t know a damn thing about children.
But I do know this little girl might be the most beautiful human I’ve ever seen—after her mother, of course.
I came tonight committed. Committed to stepping into Rhea’s world, to really seeing her life. And I know without a doubt: that means knowingEsme.
I grin when I see the gift I sent—a miniature French bakery play set—spread out across the floor. Wooden baguettes, tiny jam jars, a fabric croissant with hand-stitched flake detail.
Esme holds out her hand, offering one to me.
“Yummy,” she says, proudly. “Sant.”
“Croissant?” I ask, crouching to her level. “Looks delicious.”
She beams and hands it to me like it’s the finest offering in the world.
Her eyes are Rhea’s—soft and stormy—and her energy is entirely her own: bubbly, bright, humming with curiosity. She laughs to herself, then looks to me, waiting for my reaction like I’m already part of the joke.
Rhea is attempting to tidy up. I can tell, but I pretend not to notice.
The scent of melted cheese and something vaguely herby drifts toward me.
“I didn’t know librarians could cook, too,” I say, as she walks back into the room.
She rolls her eyes with a crooked smile. “Yes, we’re full of surprises. And our Friday night specialty is frozen pizza. Lucky for you, we always keep a spare in case someone seeks shelter from the rain.”
She slips back into the kitchen, and I hear the clatter of a dishwasher being either emptied or loaded. Then she’s back.
“Can I offer you a beer?” she asks sheepishly. “I have exactly two in the fridge. Both Coronas. Kind of fancy. Or would you prefer wine with your pizza?”
“A Corona is my preferred pairing for frozen pizza,” I say with a wink.
Dinner is… fun.
The three of us gather at a little drop-leaf table tucked into the kitchen nook. Esme sits proudly in her high chair, pizza slice in hand.
Except—she doesn’t eat it like any human I’ve seen. First, she scrapes the toppings off with her fingers and eats those. Then, she licks the sauce clean off the crust. Finally, she gnaws on what remains, occasionally ripping it into pieces with surprising determination.
“This is great entertainment,” I say, laughing. “Seeing Esme do it this way makes me realize how boring I’ve been—always eating pizza in the same, predictable order.”
Rhea smiles, but her eyes stay on Esme. Always scanning.
“Uh-uh,” she says suddenly. “Too much. Spit it out.”
Esme doesn’t.
Before I can blink, Rhea is up, crouched beside the high chair, lifting Esme’s little arms above her head. And just like that—pop—out comes a soggy chunk of crust.
Rhea exhales, pressing a kiss to Esme’s curls like she’s grateful just to breathe again. I feel it, too, in my chest—the invisible weight of what it means towatch every momentbecause you’re the only safety net your child has.
After dinner, Rhea runs a bath while Esme starts what I quickly learn is a ritual: she goes to the toy box, selects something random, marches it over to me for commentary.
“Ah, yes,” I say solemnly, holding up a plastic banana. “A fine specimen. Clearly imported from the south of France.”
She giggles.
Next, a rubber duck. “Is this... Monsieur Quackers?”
