My shoulders loosen a fraction.
“And if it happens again?”
“You call me,” she says immediately. “Not the office. Not a teacher. Me.”
“Thank you.”
She hesitates. “Boone… you’re doing right by her. Please don’t doubt that.”
“I try.”
“I know.”
The call ends softly.
I stand there for a long moment afterward, listening to the wind move through the trees.
I don’t know how to protect Sadie from every sharp edge in the world.
But I know this—I will not be quiet, and I will not let her learn that she has to be.
I pour coffee. It tastes bitter. I drink it anyway.
Behind me, a floorboard creaks.
“Morning,” Delaney says.
She’s cautious. She knows I’m wound tight and doesn’t want to snap anything.
“Morning,” I answer.
She moves into the kitchen area of the cabin. She rinses a mug, keeps her hands busy.
“Was that… the school?” She winces. “I wasn’t trying to overhear, but…”
“Yeah. It was.”
She nods. Doesn’t press.
“They say it’s handled, with Eli,” I add, and the words come out sharper than I intend. “Everyone keeps saying that.”
Delaney turns then, mug forgotten in her hands.
“That doesn’t mean it feels handled,” she says.
I scrub a hand over my jaw. “No. It doesn’t.”
She sets the mug down and leans back against the counter, giving me space but not distance. It’s something she’s good at, being there without crowding.
“She’s six,” I say. “Six. And she’s already figuring out how to make herself smaller so things don’t get worse.”
Delaney’s mouth tightens. “That’s not okay.”
“I know.” My tone roughens. “But knowing doesn’t stop it from happening.”
She waits. Lets the silence stretch without trying to fill it. That’s another thing she does right.
“I keep thinking about all the little stuff,” I continue. “Not just Eli. The questions. The looks. Mother’s Day projects that come home half-finished because she doesn’t know what to do with them. Kids asking why her dad shows up to everything instead of her mom.”
