I was making it worse with every syllable. I leaned my forehead against the cool wood of the door, squeezing my eyes shut, feeling like the world's most colossal failure.
This was the product of a childhood spent jumping between foster homes, which were places run by people who were, at best, emotionally detached and, at worst, actively cruel. Rebecca was the better half; compared to her, I learned nothing and felt helpless in these moments. Compassion was a luxury for people whose own cups were full. Mine had been cracked and empty for as long as I could remember.
"He didn't mean to be mean, sweetheart. Jake was just curious. He didn't understand?—"
Nothing. Fresh sobs.
I was a man trying to fix a watch with a sledgehammer. Useless. Completely useless.
"Need some help?"
I jerked upright, spinning. Emma stood beside me, her expression gentle but calm. Not panicked. Not pitying. Just steady, like bedrock.
"Jake asked about her mom." The words tumbled out in a desperate whisper. "Where she was. I don't know what to say to her. Everything makes it worse."
She listened, her gaze steady on mine. Then she reached out and placed a hand on my arm, it was light, warm, grounding the chaos spinning within me.
"It's okay," she said quietly. "Let me try."
She squeezed my arm once, then pushed the restroom door open and slipped inside. The door swung shut, leaving me alone in the silent hallway with my hammering heart.
I stood there, counting heartbeats. I heard murmuring voices, Emma's soft, indistinct melody beneath Sarah's hiccupping cries. The sobs didn't stop immediately, but they changed. Lost their ragged, panicked edge. Softened into something that just sounded sad.
Then, a miracle.
Less than three minutes later, the door opened. Emma emerged, and beside her, holding her hand, was Sarah. My niece's face was blotchy, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy, but she was calm. The storm had passed. She even managed a wobbly, tentative smile when she saw me.
The relief hit me so hard I had to steady myself against the wall.
"How did you do that?" My voice was thick with wonder, sharp with disappointment in myself.
Emma's smile was soft, understanding. "Sometimes kids just need to hear that their feelings are okay. That it's alright to be sad and miss someone. And that having a different kind of family doesn't mean having less love."
She looked down at Sarah, squeezing her hand. "Right, birthday girl?"
Sarah nodded, sniffling. "Ms. Reed says Mommy would be really proud of my bee cake. And that she's watching from somewhere nice."
I knelt down, my tired knees cracking in protest, and opened my arms. Sarah released Emma's hand and walked into my embrace, burying her face against my shoulder. I held her, this small, precious, resilient creature, and over her head, my eyes met Emma's.
"Thank you," I said. The words were utterly insufficient, but they were all I had.
The party recovered because Emma willed it to. She steered things back toward joy with practiced ease, and within fifteen minutes, kids were shrieking with laughter over pin-the-stinger. Sarah participated, her smile slowly returning, quieter now, more thoughtful, but still just as real.
When the last guest finally departed, I surveyed the wreckage of streamers and deflating balloons.
"Let me drive you home," I said to Emma. "As a thank you. For everything today."
She looked surprised, then nodded with a soft smile. "That would be nice. Thank you, Mr. Brennan."
“If I’m going to call you Emma, I think it’s only fair you call me Cole,” I remarked.
Emma’s smile widened, “Okay. Thank you, Cole.”
We walked to the truck, and for the early parts of the drive, Sarah chattered in the backseat about her new paints and the bee game, then gradually fell silent. By the time we turned onto Emma's dirt road, she was fast asleep, her paper crown still clutched in one hand.
Emma's cabin was cozy, smaller than mine, nestled among tall pines in a quiet clearing. A porch light glowed warmly, welcoming. I walked her to the door, acutely aware of the cool night air, the crickets singing, the strange electricity crackling between us.
"So." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly seeming almost shy. "This is me."
