Since Mom.
Since the day I realized adults can disappear, and you don’t get a vote.
Since the day the world stopped being safe, and I decided I’d never be caught unprepared again.
Pops watches my face like he can hear the rest of the sentence anyway.
He exhales. “Sloane. You’re my daughter. Not my nurse.”
My throat tightens until it feels like I can’t breathe.
I blink rapidly, trying not to cry.
I don’t cry in front of Pops.
I don’t.
It makes him sad, and I refuse to make him sad.
Pops’s voice softens. “I need you to do something for me.”
My stomach drops. “What?”
He takes a breath. “Let me talk. Even if you don’t respond. Even if you hate every word. Just…let me say this.”
My hands tremble under his.
My chest feels like it’s splitting open.
I don’t want to.
But Pops is looking at me like this matters—like it’s one of the last things he can give me.
So I nod once.
Barely.
Pops exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks. “Okay.”
He shifts in his chair, discomfort visible, then settles again. “I’m proud of you,” he says.
I swallow hard. “You don’t need to?—”
“I do,” he interrupts gently. “I’m proud of the woman you’ve become. Even when you’re stubborn as hell.”
A broken laugh tries to escape. I choke it down.
Pops’s eyes warm. “I’m proud of you on the court. I’m proud of you in this house. I’m proud of you for loving people the way you do, even when it scares you.”
My throat burns.
Pops’s thumb strokes my knuckles again. “And I’m sorry.”
I jerk slightly. “Sorry?”
Pops nods slowly. “For the things I couldn’t fix. For the things I didn’t see sooner. For making you feel like it was your job to hold everything together.”
Panic rises sharp and hot. “You didn’t make me?—”
