For letting doubt fog things up.
For letting the first punch I throw be at myself.
Delaney isn’t Marissa.
But part of me, some stupid, bruised part that I never fully scraped out, reacts as if she could be.
“Daddy?”
Her voice saves me.
Sadie’s in the doorway, hair sticking six different ways, blinking fast as a sleepy little owl.
I sit up straighter. “Hey, darling.”
She crawls into my lap before I can blink, warm and small and calming.
“You look grumpy,” she observes, poking my cheek with ruthless accuracy.
“I’m fine,” I lie, because if I start telling the truth right now, I won’t know where to stop.
She hums. Noncommittal. Kid can see through me.
“Can Delaney braid my hair today?” she asks, yawning into my shirt.
A muscle jumps in my jaw.
Shit, I need to act normally. Be a dad.
“Yeah. We’ll ask her.”
Sadie grins.
The drive should feel normal.
Sadie chatters the whole way. About her art project, about Micah’s new shoes, about how she hopes today’s snack isn’t “the sad applesauce.” Her voice is bright, a lifeline I hold onto with both hands.
But my grip on the wheel is too tight.
My shoulders locked.
Every laugh she gives me is a tiny mercy I don’t deserve.
We pull into the drop-off lane. Kids spill out of minivans. Confetti in every direction. Loud, insane, oblivious to the way the world can tilt overnight.
“Bye, Daddy!” Sadie blows me a kiss, already halfway out the door, backpack bouncing.
“See you later, Sadie,” I say, but I sound far off, as if the voice belongs to someone else.
She disappears into the building.
I’m about to pull away, already planning how to keep my face straight when I walk into the ranch, when movement catches my eye.
Principal Jenks steps out of the doorway, but not with her casual “Good morning, Mr. Taylor” wave.
No, this is the other one.
The serious one. The “We need to talk” wave.
