When he appears in the doorway, Phoebe’s small duffel is already slung over his shoulder.
“I packed her ballet shoes,” he says. “Just in case.”
Of course he did.
My heart tumbles at the sight of Phoebe’s weekend bag, already stuffed full, with her favorite sweatshirt folded over the top.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He presses a kiss to my head and steps away again, leaving me to finish without commentary or pressure. And for once, mybody doesn’t flag it as “he’s upset about the will”, but as the encouragement I know he intends it to be.
We’ve got this.
When everything is finally packed, and my suitcase is zipped, it looks too small for everything I’m feeling.
I leave it and head back to the living room.
“Hey, bug,” I say, crouching beside the couch. “How do you feel about a quick, magical trip to see Mimi and Pop?”
Her face lights up for just a second, then falls. She peers up at Owen, then past him, to where Aiden has materialized at the other end of the couch.
“But we just saw them.”
“I know,” I say gently. “But Pop isn’t feeling very well, and I need to go check on him.”
She considers this, then twists to look at Owen. “I could stay here, though. Right?”
Owen looks stricken. “Baby girl, I would love for you, too. But?—”
“Aunt Evie can make sure I get all the conditioner out of my hair,” she continues earnestly, “and Dad can read me bedtime stories.”
The word shatters my world again for the third time tonight. But this time, it feels like the kind of dream you don’t want to wake up from. Not a nightmare.
Dad.
The room goes still.
I’m still crouched when I whisper, “What?”
Her hands fly to her mouth like a bad word slipped out. “I forgot I’m not supposed to call him that, yet. Not till you say it’s okay.”
I gently pull her hands down. “Who told you that?”
“Aunt Evie,” she whispers. “She said it was your decision. Yours and?—”
She trails off, eyes flicking to Aiden. Her eyes look like they’re about to spill a river of tears.
“And Dad’s,” I finish softly.
I glance over at him. He doesn’t look as surprised as I expect, but he does look hopeful. His eyes are round saucers that practically emulate an emoji, and my heart squeezes.
“If that’s what you want to call him,” I say to Phoebe, “I think he’d love that.”
Her face crumples with relief.
“As much as your sugar cookies?” she asks.
“No, bug,” I say, smiling through the ache. “More.”
