The words slammed into my chest, leaving me breathless. "Of course I do," I said immediately, voice catching. "More than anything."
"I told her that," Palisade assured me. "She seemed… relieved. Maybe even happy."
Before I could respond, a small voice called from down the hall. "Mom? Is that Dad?"
Dad.
The word sent a surge of emotion through me so powerful I had to grip the hockey stick to steady myself. Not Uncle Easton. Dad.
"Yes, sweetheart," Palisade called back. "He's here."
Casey appeared in the doorway, her usual confidence replaced with a hesitancy that surprised me. Her blue eyes were wide and uncertain as they moved from me to Palisade and back again.
None of us spoke.
Then Casey's gaze landed on the hockey stick in my hands.
"I brought you something," I said, my voice gentler than I knew it could be. I held out the stick, watching her face as she came closer warily. "I thought you might like a stick with your real name on it."
Casey took the stick, turned it to read the custom lettering:Casey Henley. Her fingers traced the letters reverently, unhurried.
"Henley," she said. "Like you."
"Likeus," I corrected gently. "That's your name too, if you want it to be."
She looked up at me, her small face so serious it nearly broke my heart. "Are you really my dad?"
The question hit me square in the chest.
"You think you're man enough to be someone's father someday?"
My father, standing in the doorway of my childhood bedroom, scotch in hand. I'd been seventeen, caught sneaking back in after curfew. Smelling of beer and some girl's perfume.
"Look at you. Can't even follow simple rules. Can't control yourself."He'd taken a slow sip, ice clinking."You're going to be just like me, Easton. And God help any kid unlucky enough to call you Dad."
I'd believed him for years. Believed I'd inherited his anger, his inability to love right, his talent for destroying everything good in his life.
But looking at Casey now, I knew he'd been wrong.
I wasn't him. I wouldn't be him.
"Yeah, kiddo," I managed, my voice rough. "I'm really your dad."
"Why didn't you know before?" She asked, her gaze flickering briefly to Palisade before returning to me.
I glanced at Palisade, silently asking how much to explain. She gave a small nod.
"Your mom and I weren't together when you were born," I began carefully. "I didn't know about you until recently. If I had known, I would have been here from the very beginning."
Casey considered this, her brow creasing in a way that was painfully familiar. It was exactly like mine when I was thinking through a play.
"You didn't leave on purpose?" she asked, and I realized this had been her fear.
"No, Casey." I reached out slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted to. When she didn't, I gently took her hand. "I would never have left if I'd known about you. Ever."
She nodded, satisfied with this answer. Then, with the directness only children possess, she asked, "What do I call you now? Dad instead of Uncle Easton?"
"You can call me whatever makes you comfortable," I told her, though my heart ached for her to use the title I'd discovered I desperately wanted to hear. "Uncle Easton is still okay if that feels better for now."
