Delaney swallows. “Kids can be cruel without realizing it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “And parents can be cruel on purpose.”
Her eyes flick up, sharp but gentle. “Carol.”
I nod once. She’s heard me moan before. “Carol.”
She exhales slowly. “I’m really sorry, Boone.”
“I don’t know how to fix it,” I admit. The words taste of failure. “I can’t change the town. I can’t control what kids repeat at school. And I can’t explain things to Sadie without hurting her more.”
Delaney studies me for a long moment, then says quietly, “You’re already doing the most important part.”
I huff. “Which is?”
“Listening,” she says. “Believing her. Not telling her she’s too sensitive or that she needs to toughen up. You’re teaching her that her feelings matter.”
I look away, jaw tight. “Feels like not enough.”
She steps a little closer. Not touching. Just close enough that I know she’s there.
“When I was a kid,” she says softly, “the worst part wasn’t what people said. It was when no one stood up and said, ‘That shouldn’t have happened.’”
I glance at her. “You had that happen a lot?”
She gives a small, humorless smile. “More than I’d like.”
The cabin creaks around us, wind brushing the windows.
“I keep worrying she’ll think this is her fault,” I say. “That if she were different—quieter, tougher, easier—none of this would happen.”
Delaney shakes her head immediately. “Then she’s learning the wrong lesson. And you’re not teaching her that.”
I blow out a breath. “I just… I don’t want her to grow up thinking people leave because she’s inconvenient.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Delaney stills.
“Marissa left,” I say finally. “Packed a bag and said she needed space to figure herself out. Told me it wasn’t about Sadie. But you tell a toddler that enough times, and it doesn’t stick.”
Delaney’s eyes soften. “Kids personalize everything.”
“So do adults,” I mutter.
I lean back against the table, arms crossed. “I keep thinking… what if this all piles up? What if school becomes another place she braces herself? What if she starts expecting people to walk away?”
Delaney takes a careful breath. “Then you keep showing her that you won’t.”
“I am,” I say. “Every day.”
“I know,” she replies. “But Boone… it’s okay to acknowledge that it still hurts.”
My laugh comes out rough. “That’s not something I’m great at.”
She tilts her head. “You don’t have to be great at it. You just have to be honest.”
I meet her gaze. “Marissa said she felt trapped in Coyote Glen. Like the ranch was swallowing her whole. And sometimes I wonder if I missed something. If I pushed too hard. If I made staying impossible.”
