She looked up, immediately alert. “Am I in trouble?”
I grunted, something between a chuckle and a groan. “Why would you think that?”
“You only call me Baby Girl when I’m in trouble . . . or when you’re about to tell me something you think I won’t like.”
Well, damn. Kids really did pick up everything, whether we realized it or not.
“No, baby. You’re not in trouble, but I need to have a grown-up talk with you, okay?”
Her expression grew cautious as she crossed her spindly arms and squinted up at me, the syrup on her plate no longer fascinating. “Okay.”
I drew in a deep breath, trying to figure out how to start this conversation I’d been rehearsing in my head for days. No, weeks. Hell, years. Yeah, it had been bouncing around my chicken-shit brain for years. I justified it with the “she’s not old enough” argument. The reality? I wasn’t old enough. Or mature enough.
Or brave enough.
But I couldn’t afford fear. Not anymore.
“You know how much I love you, right?”
She nodded, more nervous tick than intentional affirmation. I could see uncertainty creeping into her eyes.
“I love you more than anything in the whole world,” I continued, reaching across the table to take her small hand inmine. “You’re the most important thing in my life, Button. You make every day better just by being in it.”
“Daddy, you’re scaring me,” she said quietly, her voice folding in on itself almost as much as her body.
Shit. I’m doing this all wrong.
When adults started conversations with declarations of love and importance, kids immediately assumed something terrible was about to happen—because, most of the time, that’s exactly what was coming.
Get it together, Theo. She’s five, not a philosophy student. Just tell her what you need to tell her.
“I’m sorry, Baby Doll. I’m not trying to scare you.” I reached across the table and squeezed her hand gently. “I just . . . Daddy’s scared, too. What I need to tell you . . . no . . . what I need to ask you . . . it’s big. Really big. And . . . I need your permission to do something.”
“My . . . permission?” Her eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.
I sucked in another breath and blew it out slowly, hoping to calm my racing heart. It did absolutely nothing.
“Yes, permission. I want to do something, but it involves you, and I want to know that you’re okay if I do it. I promise, I won’t do anything without you telling me it’s what you want, too. Does that make sense?”
Her brows knitted tighter and then slowly relaxed. “Um, I guess so.”
This was it.
The moment I’d been building up to since Debbie was barely able to hold her own head upright. I fidgeted with my coffee mug, started to speak, stopped, cleared my throat, and tried again.
“I need your permission to . . .” I hesitated, the words stuck somewhere between my brain and my mouth.
“Daddy?” I heard as I blinked away tears I hadn’t noticed clouding my vision. Debbie rose from her seat and climbed into my lap. “Whatever it is, Daddy, we’ll be okay. I know we will.”
I looked at her sweet, patient face, at the chocolate chip smudge on her cheek and the way she was still holding my hand with complete trust, and felt my heart clench with love and terror in equal measure.
“I need your permission,” I said finally, “to become your daddy for real.”
She blinked at me, her mouth slightly open but utterly still.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
