"Perfect." She sighs, already half-asleep. "Daddy?"
"Yeah, baby?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not letting me disappear. Everyone else just... takes. You're the first person who's ever tried to protect me from it."
My chest tightens. "That's what Daddies do. Protect their little girls."
"Even from themselves?"
"Especially from themselves."
She falls asleep in minutes. I stay awake longer, holding her, this soft woman who gives everything to everyone except herself.
Not anymore.
She's mine now. And I protect what's mine.
four
Daisy
Today,Ibrokearule.
Dr. Mitchell calls during my lunch break. I'm halfway through the turkey sandwich Rex packed for me this morning—with a note that said "Eat ALL of it, baby girl" in his blocky handwriting.
"Daisy, I know you're off this afternoon, but Sarah called in sick. Could you cover the desk until five? Just checking people in, nothing major."
I should say no. Should text Rex first. That's rule number one: Ask permission before saying yes to work.
But it's just the front desk. And Sarah probably isn't really sick—she does this every other week when she's hungover. And Dr. Mitchell sounds stressed.
"Sure, I'll be right there."
The words are out before I can stop them. Before I can even reach for my phone.
It's not until 4:47, after spending four hours checking in cranky pet owners and fielding calls about whether dogs can eat chocolate (no, they can't, Google exists), that I check my phone.
Six missed calls from Rex. Seven texts.
2:15 PM: How's your afternoon off? Want me to pick anything up?
2:47 PM: Baby, answer your phone.
3:22 PM: If you got called into work, why didn't you ask permission?
4:01 PM: I'm not angry. But we're going to talk about this.
4:45 PM: Daisy.
5:30 PM: When your shift ends, come straight home.
My stomach drops. That last text isn't a request.
I drive home slowly, practicing explanations. Dr. Mitchell needed help. Sarah called in. It was just the front desk. But even as I rehearse the words, I know they're excuses. The rule was clear: Ask first. Always.
