“Yeah.”
“And it scared you.”
My jaw tightens. “Not in the way you think.”
“Then tell me in the way you think.”
I pace because it’s the only thing keeping my thoughts from running too fast.
“She’s good,” I say quietly. “She’s really… good. And this thing between us is moving fast. Faster than I planned, faster than I could even brace for.”
Mom nods. “And that’s not bad.”
“But what if she leaves?” The words rip out before I can filter them. “What if she decides this was a nice little festival fling and then goes back wherever she came from and Maisie gets attached and then we’re back where we were six years ago?”
My voice cracks right at the end, I hate that it does, but I can’t fix it.
Mom’s expression softens. She reaches out and taps the chair beside her.
I sit.
“You’re afraid of her disappearing,” she says gently.
“I’m afraid of Maisie getting her heart broken,” I admit. “I’m afraid of letting someone into our life and watching it blow up in her face.”
Mom nods again, taking her time with her words. “You’re a good father. You’ve protected her from a lot, but Liam, protecting her doesn’t mean keeping the world out.”
“The world hurts her,” I say quietly.
“Sometimes,” Mom agrees. “But the world also gives her things, like friends and experiences, people who show up when they say they will.”
She gives me a pointed look.
“You’re not giving Charlotte a chance to be one of those people.”
“I barely know her,” I say, frustrated and scared all at once. “We’ve known each other for days. Days. And I already feel like…” I trail off because I can’t finish the sentence.
Mom raises a brow. “Like this might be real?”
I drop my head into my hands. “I don’t want it to be real if she’s not staying.”
“You don’t get to decide that part,” Mom says softly. “You only get to decide whether you show up.”
“I do show up,” I say defensively.
“For Maisie, yes,” she says. “Always. But not for yourself, not since before Maisie’s mom left.”
I go quiet.
It’s not a wound I think about often. It’s just a scar that lives under the surface.
Mom’s voice softens even more. “She left because she couldn’t handle her own life, not because something was wrong with yours. That is her story, not yours. And certainly not Charlotte’s.”
My throat feels tight. “You don’t know she won’t leave.”
“No,” Mom says. “But you also don’t know she will.”
I swallow against the lump forming. “If Maisie loses another person…”
