“It’s okay,” Tessa says immediately, steady. Calm. “Accidents happen.”
She doesn’t flip the picture over right away. She waits. Looks up at me first.
I nod once.
She turns the frame.
It’s my wife.
Lauren.
Smiling at something off-camera. Wind in her hair. That photo was taken at the Phantom River the summer before the fire. She’s laughing and holding her very pregnant belly, my little girl nestled inside. Just months before chaos would rip her from us.
A crack now runs straight through the glass across her face.
Lacee’s breathing goes uneven.
“I didn’t mean to,” she whispers.
I crouch in front of her. “I know you didn’t.”
Her eyes fill. Tessa stands slowly, holding the frame like it’s fragile in a way that has nothing to do with the glass.
“I’ll get the broom,” she says quietly.
She moves toward the kitchen without another word.
I guide Lacee to the couch. “Hey,” I murmur. “Look at me.”
She sniffles. “Is Mommy mad?”
That question still cuts like it’s new.
“No,” I say. “Of course not, baby. Mommy would have loved you wild.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
Her shoulders ease. “Okay.”
She wipes her face with the heel of her hand and scampers off to her room, crisis apparently resolved.
Kids are built different.
I stand slowly.
Tessa returns with the broom and dustpan.
“You want me to handle it?” she asks.
Her voice is careful, but not fragile.
“No.”
I take the broom from her. Our fingers brush. She doesn’t flinch.
She watches me sweep the glass, then kneels to gather the broken pieces.
