By the time a massive platter of fluffy pancakes and crispy bacon lands on the dining table, Pop joins us, already dressed and alert. Ruby chatters through breakfast, telling us all about the book Momma read her last night and how she made it to the end without falling asleep.
After we eat, Pop wipes his mouth and looks at Ruby. “That was delicious, Peanut. Thank you.”
Ruby beams.
“The fall festival at the church is tonight,” Momma says. “I expect you two to finish up work early.” She looks us both in the eye. “No excuses.”
“I’m a unicorn!” Ruby yells.
“A what?” Pop asks.
“A unicorn,” she repeats. “Nana made my dress.”
“Yes. We have a few more adjustments to make this afternoon, and it’ll be ready.”
The fall festival in Wildhaven is a big event. The entire town comes together at the fairgrounds to celebrate the harvestseason, fall foliage, and the ushering in of winter. Since we live in a part of the country where your nearest neighbor is the farm or ranch ten miles down the road, trick-or-treating isn’t a thing here like it is in other cities, so the festival is a time for kids to dress up and enjoy a night of games, apple bobbing, and getting free candy from every vendor.
I loved the festival, growing up, and I can’t wait to share the experience with Ruby.
We managed to keep our word and finished up early today, which almost never happens when you’re gathering, driving, and branding cattle for a winter pasture move. My arms ache in that good, earned way. I’d forgotten how much I missed this—the rhythm of the drive, the way a crew moves like one body, the horses knowing their jobs as well as we do. It feels like slipping back into a version of myself I thought I’d lost somewhere along the way.
Now I’m clean, showered, and leaning against the banister in the front hall, waiting for the big reveal.
Momma and Ruby are upstairs, getting dressed for the festival, and Ruby has been vibrating with nervous excitement since our early supper. She barely ate, too busy bouncing in her chair and peppering me with questions about the rides, the candy, the horses, the band. It’s like she’s afraid the whole thing might not happen if she doesn’t keep reminding herself it’s coming.
I don’t mind.
I’m just grateful she feels like herself again.
Last week was rough. Really rough. Starting the day care knocked something loose inside her that I hadn’t even realized was still fragile. She started asking for her mommy again, crying in that quiet, broken way that cuts right through my chest. She did that a lot when Candy first left her with me. That first week was hell. She didn’t know me. I was just a stranger who she was told was her daddy. She wanted her mother. I couldn’t blame her.
But slowly, day by day, she began to trust me. To believe I wasn’t going anywhere.
And it’s been a long time since she asked for her mommy.
Until last week.
So, I caved. Let her crawl into my bed a couple of nights. Little arms wrapped around me like she was afraid I’d disappear in the dark. I didn’t even pretend to mind.
And now, here she is again, bright-eyed and buzzing, like nothing ever went wrong. Children really are resilient.
Footsteps sound on the stairs.
Momma’s voice floats down. “We’re ready!”
I straighten automatically, a smile already pulling at my mouth.
They come into view—Momma first and then Ruby, who looks like she stepped straight out of a fairy tale. She’s wearing a powder-pink dress with tights and a rainbow tulle skirt that catches the light when she moves. She’s got detachable iridescent wings, a little tail, and a unicorn horn headband perched crookedly in her hair.
She’s a sight.
She’s perfect.
“Well,” I breathe, “would you look at that?”
Ruby beams, spinning so her skirt flares. “I’m a unicorn fairy!”
“You sure are, sweetheart.”
