Tilly waved enthusiastically, her reindeer bobbing along with her. “Bye, Eliza!”
“Bye, Tilly,” I said. “Stay cute.”
Nate held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. “Have a good day.”
“I will,” I said. “You too.”
We parted with a small wave, heading down separate aisles, but the store didn’t feel quite as empty anymore. I pushed my cart forward, warmth settling into my chest, and let myself carry it with me.
The moment loosened its hold. I finished my shopping, checked out while the store still felt half-asleep, and stepped back into the cold morning with my bags cutting into my palms. By the time I pulled up to the Coffee Cabin, the sky was beginning to lighten, the day ready to start whether I was or not. I unlocked the door, flicked on the lights, and let the familiar quiet wrap around me—carrying that small, unexpected warmth with me as I set about opening up.
Chapter 5
Nate
Monday morning came soft and gray, the kind that made everything feel a little slower as I drove Tilly toward Honeybrook Hollow Elementary. I caught myself watching the sidewalks as we passed through town, half-expecting to see Eliza heading toward the Coffee Cabin, even though I knew how unlikely that was. Tilly looked tiny as we climbed the school steps, her backpack tugging at her shoulders, pausing to take it all in. She’d been to Pre-K in Portland, but this felt different—more permanent, more like the life I’d been trying to build for us. Homey and real. Cozy and warm.
Mostly, though, I watched Tilly. I watched her square her shoulders and head inside, and I felt it settle in my chest that this was the point of all of it. A life with roots. A little more time together. And something that finally felt like home.
It was strange how quickly a new chapter could begin—one minute you were wrapped up in your own worries, the next you were responsible for someone else’s entire world. I took a deep breath, letting the morning’s uncertainty settle on my shoulders, and reminded myself that this was as much a beginning for me as it was for Tilly. The familiar ache of nerves mingled with hope,a reminder that even on the hardest days, life offered the chance to start over, exactly like we were doing in Honeybrook Hollow.
The parking lot buzzed with morning energy—minivans idling, kids hopping out with backpacks half-zipped, coffee cups balanced on roofs while parents wrangled lunches and coats. I crouched to straighten Tilly’s jacket, hyperaware of the way conversations seemed to pause just long enough to register me. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, just… new. A few moms smiled openly. One gave me a slow, curious once-over like she was cataloging details for later. Someone whispered. I pretended not to notice, because noticing felt like participating.
I caught my reflection in the glass of a car window—rumpled flannel, bed head under a beanie, the same tired-but-put-together look I’d perfected since becoming a single dad. Apparently, it worked. I exchanged polite hellos and accepted a few friendly comments about how cute Tilly was. One mom lingered a second too long and asked if we were new to town. I answered automatically, already thinking about how strange it was to be evaluated like this—as if I were available inventory instead of a man just trying to get his kid to class on time.
The school was one of those red-brick, two-story buildings that probably looked exactly the same since the sixties, complete with a bell tower that hadn’t worked in decades and a row of painted murals along the sidewalk—smiling animals with backpacks, a rainbow, and a slightly terrifying dolphin holding a pencil in its fin. The Pre-K wing had its own small courtyard, fenced with white pickets, scattered with plastic ride-on toys, and one very tired tricycle.
Tilly, for her part, had gone full sparkle for her first day. She wore a purple puffy coat covered in silver stars, a matching knit hat with cat ears, and the sparkly light-up sneakers my mother had “accidentally” bought her when they had gone shopping together. Her backpack was pink with a picture of a cartoonjellyfish named Princess Bubbles, and she clutched Waffles the reindeer in one hand like a fuzzy little security guard.
We’d had the grand tour of the school the week before Christmas break. She had met her teacher and knew where to go, so why was I so reluctant to let her walk through the door?
The air was crisp with the lingering chill of winter, the kind that still clung to your bones. Kids swarmed the steps of Honeybrook Hollow Elementary, their voices buzzing with stories from holiday break and excitement about seeing old friends again. But for Tilly, this wasn't the first day back—it was her first day ever. While everyone else slipped easily into familiar routines, Tilly was stepping into something entirely new, her bright coat and nervous smile setting her apart from the crowd. I watched her, heart twisting, knowing how brave she was to face all of this for the very first time.
One of the moms leaned down with a smile. “Your dad’s very handsome,” she said to Tilly, like it was a secret meant just for her.
Tilly considered this seriously. Then she nodded. “Yeah. But he’s already tired.”
I coughed, trying not to laugh.
She tugged on my hand and added, helpfully, “And he’s making me grilled cheese for dinner. So he’s busy.”
The woman blinked. Then laughed. Hard.
Tilly waved once, completely satisfied, and dragged me toward the stairs like the matter was settled.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you in?”
“I’m sure.” She nodded solemnly. “You can go. I’m brave now. I decided it, and now I am.”
I glanced around at the crowd of bustling kids, some clinging to parents and some rushing ahead with untamed excitement. Teachers and staff moved with practiced ease, greeting children and offering reassuring smiles. Watching the orderly chaos, Iknew, with so much care and laughter swirling around, that Tilly would be fine here.
I smiled. “I never doubted it. You’re the bravest kid I know.”
She hesitated, big blue eyes squinting up at me. “But will you come back and pick me up in case it sucks?”
I knelt down so we were eye to eye, feeling the familiar mixture of excitement and anxiety swirling inside me. The moment seemed enormous, more than a school drop-off—this was the beginning of new routines, new friendships, and new places for both of us. I squeezed her tiny mittened hand, hoping she’d feel my reassurance through all the layers, and tried to memorize this image: her determined chin, her wide eyes, the way she stood tall even when she felt small.
“Yes. But I think you’re going to have a great day.”
