I should tell him. Right now. Just send a text.She's yours. Casey is your daughter.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard.
But then I looked at Casey, sleeping peacefully, and I couldn't do it. Not like this. Not over text. And not when everything was still so new and uncertain.
Soon, I told myself. Soon I'll tell him the truth.
I hoped that when I finally did, they would both understand why I'd waited so long.
My phone rang while I was chopping vegetables for dinner the next evening. Casey's laughter drifted from the living room, where she was building something elaborate with her Legos. I glanced at the screen and smiled despite my exhaustion.
Mom.
"Hey," I answered, tucking the phone between my shoulder and ear as I continued dicing carrots.
"Don't 'hey' me in that tone. What's wrong?"
I should have known better than to try hiding anything from Elizabeth Honors. Twenty-six years of teaching elementary school had given her supernatural abilities to read emotions through the smallest vocal inflections.
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just making dinner."
"Palisade." Using my full name was never a good sign. "I know when something's bothering you. Is it work? Casey?"
"It's…" I set down the knife, closing my eyes. "It's complicated."
"Complicated usually means it involves a man." Amusement laced her words.
There was a pause, and I could practically hear her piecing it together. "Holly mentioned running into Easton at the clinic last week. Is he… is he back in your life?"
Of course, Holly had mentioned it. My best friend and my mother talked regularly.
"He's doing court-ordered community service at the clinic," I said carefully. "After the incident with the reporter. So yes, he's around."
The silence on the other end was loaded with everything Mom wasn't saying. She'd known Easton since he was sixteen, sitting in the bleachers during his high school games while Dad coached. She'd watched him grow from a talented but angry kid into a professional athlete.
"How are you handling that?" Her voice was gentle, concerned. "Seeing him again after all this time?"
"I'm managing. It's been… strange. He's different than I remember. More controlled. He's in therapy for his anger issues."
"That's good." A pause. "And Casey? Has she met him?"
My throat tightened. This was the part that kept me up at night. "Yes. Last night he came over for dinner to apologize for a media incident, and she was… she was so happy, Mom."
"Oh, honey."
"I know." I sank into a kitchen chair, watching Casey through the doorway, completely absorbed in her world of Legos and imagination. "She's getting attached. And he doesn't even know that she's…" I couldn't finish the sentence.
"That she's his," Mom finished softly. "Palisade, you're going to have to tell him. Eventually."
"I know that." My voice came out sharper than I intended. "But how? How do I look at him and say, 'By the way, that six-year-old girl you've been charming? She's your daughter. Surprise!’"
"With honesty. And probably a lot of courage." Mom sighed. "Sweetheart, I'm not judging you. I never have. You made the choice you thought was right when you were twenty-four and terrified. But Easton isn't the same boy who—"
"Who what? Who I ran away from?" I laughed bitterly. "Because that's what I did, Mom. I woke up that morning, panicked about what we'd done, and I ran. I left town for school early. I didn't answer his calls. And then when I found out I was pregnant, I convinced myself he wouldn't want her. That he'd think I was trying to trap him."
"Were those fears completely unfounded?" Mom's voice was careful. "You were twenty-four. He was thirty and at the beginning of his hockey career. Those are legitimate concerns."
I pressed my hand to my forehead. "I was terrified of needing him. Of depending on someone who might leave. So I left first."
