She nods and tucks the drawing into my pocket, not wanting anything to happen, it’s like a prized possession.
By the time we close, I’m exhausted and wired at the same time. I walk outside, lock the door, and stand on the sidewalk with Maisie climbing into the truck.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the drawing again.
Me, her, and Charlotte, like we’re a family.
My chest pulls tight.
I think about Charlotte working late at the festival grounds, probably still smiling through chaos. I think about waking up with her in my arms. I think about how much I want this to be real and how badly I don’t want to screw it up.
“Daddy,” Maisie calls, “you coming?”
“Yeah,” I say, opening the door.
“I’m coming.”
I drive us back to my mom’s house, she likes ending busy days there when I’m working late, and honestly, I like having her close right now. I need the grounding.
Mom meets us at the door, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“You’re back later than usual,” she says lightly as we come inside.
“Festival prep,” I answer, which is true, just not the whole truth.
Maisie kicks off her shoes. “Grandma, look at my picture!” She shrieks as she reaches for her picture from my pocket and runs toward the living room.
I follow them in and watch as she proudly shows the drawing to my mom. Mom’s eyes widen slightly as she takes in the three of us holding hands.
“Oh,” she says softly. “This is beautiful.”
“It’s us,” Maisie explains. “Daddy, me, and Charlotte.”
Mom glances at me, the flicker of a smile playing at her mouth, she doesn’t say anything, but I know exactly what she’s thinking.
Maisie bounces away, humming to herself while she digs through her toy basket.
Mom turns to me. “Walk with me.”
I groan quietly. “Can we not do this today?”
“No,” she says, already heading toward the back deck. “Because you’re making that face again.”
“What face?”
“The one where you’re terrified of being happy.”
I shut my eyes for a second before following her outside.
She sits in one of the chairs. I stand because I know that I may need an escape for this conversation.
Mom watches me for a moment, not pushing, just waiting.
“Something happened,” she says.
I rub the back of my neck. “Yeah.”
“With Charlotte.”
