She’s humming under her breath, just loud enough to carry. The melody wobbles for a second, then smooths out, like she’s correcting herself on instinct.
I pause mid-stir, listening. It’s one of the songs from the school musical she’s been practicing, and her voice follows it like it’s easy. Effortless.
Neither Vanessa nor I can carry a tune, so I’ve got no idea where Sophie got her voice. But damn if it doesn’t stop me in my tracks every time. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Just… sings. Like it’s built in.
I flip the eggs, watching the edges bubble. She likes them soft but not too runny. Ketchup on the side, not on top. I know every preference. Every quirk. Every allergy, bedtime story, and shifting mood.
Being her dad and playing hockey has always made sense to me.
The rest of my personal life? Less so.
My phone buzzes against the counter. I glance at the screen and immediately regret it.
Vanessa:Hey! Any chance I can take Sophie next weekend instead? I just got invited to this networking retreat thing in Napa. Big opportunity. Let me know! ??
I stare at the message, jaw tight.
She always makes it sound like a favor, like she’s asking to switch carpool shifts instead of flaking on her daughter again.
Sophie hasn’t mentioned the weekend yet, but I know she’s counting down.
She always does.
Even after all the letdowns, she still gets her hopes up.
Still checks the weather. Still picks out outfits. Still believes it’ll be different this time.
And every time Vanessa cancels, it hits her just as hard.
I start typing a response. Delete it. Start again. Delete that too.
There’s no good way to say:
You don’t get to keep breaking promises and expect me to smooth it over.
Sophie still sees her mother as a glittering, complicated constellation, and I won’t be the one to dim that light.
Not yet.
So I swallow the anger, push down the truth, and text back something neutral.
That’s fine. Just let Sophie know soon, okay?
I rub a hand over my face. My mom would tell me to let it go—that kids pick up on tension faster than we think. My dad would just grunt and tell me to get back on the ice.
They still call Denver home in their heads, but they moved down to Arizona a few years ago when my dad retired. He said they needed more sun and less snow. We talk every week or two. They mean well, both of them. Always have. But some days, they feel like a world away.
“Dad?” Sophie pulls one earbud out, glancing toward the stove.
“Can I take an extra protein bar? Maya and I have rehearsal after school. Her mom is dropping us off. We’re blocking Act Two today, and Mr. Kenner gets dramatic when we talk over each other.”
“Top shelf of the pantry,” I say, nodding. “Behind the oatmeal.”
She grins. “You’re the best.”
She slips past me on her way to the pantry, but her eyes flick to my knee.
“Do you want me to bring your coffee to the table so you don’t have to?”
