“You’re crushing it, Sophie. Really.”
That spark flashes again. Just for a second. Then she disappears down the hallway to grab her jacket, already humming the next scene under her breath.
“Love you, Dad,” she calls from the hallway.
“Love you more,” I say automatically, just loud enough for her to hear.
The front door clicks shut a few seconds later.
And I sit there with a cooling mug of coffee, staring at the spot she just left, pride and dread twisting in equal parts.
My phone buzzes on the counter—Mom.
“Morning, sweetheart. How’s the knee?”
“Still attached,” I say. “Charlotte Blake’s my physical therapist, if you can believe that.”
There’s a pause, then a soft laugh. “David’s little sister? Goodness, she used to follow you two everywhere. You said she’s a therapist now?”
“Yeah. Works with the team.”
Dad’s voice rumbles faintly in the background. “That girl was half your size and twice as loud.”
“Still is,” I mutter, smiling despite myself.
“Well,” Mom says, warmth edging into her tone, “at least you’re in good hands. You always did need someone patient.”
“Or stubborn,” I correct.
“Same thing,” she says, and I can hear her smiling. “We’ll come up once your dad’s cardiologist clears travel. He’s restless as it is.”
“You’re fine right where you are,” I tell her. “It’s good just hearing you.”
I’m rinsing out Sophie’s juice glass when I spot a crumpled piece of paper half-shoved under the fruit bowl. I pull it free and smooth it out—one of her script pages. Page six, the same scene she was running this morning.
Her pencil marks are everywhere: little arrows, underlines, one line circled three times with a note that says“GET THIS RIGHT.”
I stare at it for a second, thumb brushing over the crease.
She works so hard.
And she’s got talent.
She might never hear it from her mother, but she’ll always hear it from me.
My knee aches. Not sharp, just that dull pressure that makes you aware of every step. I ignore it.
But what I can’t ignore—what keeps circling back—is the sound of Charlotte’s voice yesterday.
Not the professional part. Not the instructions or the checklists.
The part where she said,“That’s hard. I’m sorry.”
Soft. Steady. No judgment in it. No rush to fix anything either.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t fill the space with clichés or ask questions I didn’t want to answer. She just stayed there. Present.
Maybe she’s like that with everyone. Maybe it’s just part of her job.
