Casey tilted her head, considering this with adorable seriousness. Then she looked down at the hockey stick again, at her name emblazoned on the shaft.
"I think I want to call you Dad," she said, looking up with a small, tentative smile. "Is that okay?"
"That's more than okay," I managed, my voice thick with emotion. "That's perfect."
I found myself unprepared for what happened next. Casey stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my neck, the hockey stick still clutched in one hand. It wasn't our first hug, but it was our first embrace as father and daughter.
I held her gently, carefully, understanding from watching her skate that she was far more resilient than she appeared. Over her shoulder, I met Palisade's gaze. Tears shone in her eyes, along with a genuine smile that held sadness and hope in equal measure.
"Can you teach me how to do a slap shot with my new stick?" Casey asked, pulling back from our hug. "Mom said I'm not big enough yet, but I think I am."
I laughed, the sound caught somewhere between joy and tears. "Your mom's probably right, but we can work on your wrist shot instead. It's more accurate, anyway."
Casey beamed, already back to her usual enthusiastic self. "Can we go practice now? Please?"
I looked to Palisade, not wanting to overstep. This was unfamiliar territory for all of us.
"It's getting late, and dinner is almost ready," Palisade said. "How about Dad stays for dinner, and then maybe you can practice a little before bedtime?"
Dad stays for dinner.
The casual way she said it, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, hit me with unexpected force.
"Please stay, Dad," Casey said, testing out the title again. It sounded right coming from her lips, as if she'd been saying it all along.
"I'd love to," I replied, unable to keep the smile from my face.
Dinner was surprisingly easy and awkward all at once.
Casey insisted I sit next to her at the table, dragging her chair closer to mine while Palisade served chicken and roasted vegetables. The domesticity of it hit me hard: the three of us around a table, Casey chattering away, steam rising from the dishes between us.
Like a family.
"Dad, do you like broccoli?" Casey asked, eyeing the green florets on her plate with suspicion.
"I do," I said, trying not to react too obviously every time she saidDad. Each instance sent a fresh wave of emotion through me.
"Mom says I have to eat three pieces." She looked at me hopefully. "Doyouthink three pieces is fair?"
I glanced at Palisade, who was fighting a smile. We were being tag-teamed by a six-year-old, and she knew it.
"I think," I said carefully, "that your mom probably knows what's best. But if you eat your three pieces, maybe I'll teach you that wrist shot technique after dinner."
Casey's eyes lit up. She speared a piece of broccoli with her fork immediately.
Palisade caught my eye across the table, something warm in her expression. "Nicely done," she mouthed.
"Can you come to my next hockey game?" Casey asked around a mouthful of chicken. "It's on Saturday. I'm starting center."
"Casey, chew and swallow first," Palisade reminded gently.
Casey swallowed dramatically. "Can you come? Please?"
"I wouldn't miss it," I said, and meant it. "What time?"
"Nine in the morning." Casey made a face. "Mom says it's too early, but Coach says morning ice time builds character."
"Your coach is right," I agreed. "Some of my best practices were before the sun came up."
