“Pretty smooth. Sawyer is furious we didn’t stop to see the cows, though.” I grin, remembering the herd awaiting us as we drove in.
“I’ll take him out later,” Dad promises.
“You better, or I’ll have to answer for it.”
His white beard shifts as he smiles, and I mindlessly unpack—hanging clothes, stacking toiletries, plugging in the sound machine.
I nearly forget Dad is lingering in the doorway when he chuckles and says, “You kids and your technology.”
“Have you used one?” I ask, motioning to the little machine now humming softly.
“Heck no.That’smy lullaby.” He waves at the large window facing out to the west, where the pasture stretches green and endless, colliding with the clear-blue sky, and cows scattered in the distance.
The sight softens me. It’s been years since I’ve stood here long enough to let any kind of quiet sink in.
My chest lightens as I breathe in slowly, caught for a moment by the sunlight slicing through the room, dust suspended like glitter in the heat. I let the warmth rest on my skin one beat longer before I turn back to Dad.
“Better?” he asks knowingly.
“Definitely. Where’s Mom?” I ask as we head back toward the noise of the living room.
“She hasn’t had a good day,” Tamara answers from the floor, where she’s building a block castle with Easton.
“Want me to go check on her?” I ask.
“Emma’s with her,” Jay, my other sister and Tamara’s twin, says, and I realize I hadn’t even noticed Emma slip away. “Maybe give them some space. You know Emma’s her favorite.”
“I’m well aware.” I chuckle, veering toward the kitchen.
Dad follows. “So, how’s work been?” He pullsa cast-iron skillet from the cupboard and lights the stove. “Fried?”
I nod and he drops eggs into the pan. “Feels like it never ends. Flu season’s brutal, and we’re short-staffed, so I keep covering shifts.” At this, a full-body yawn escapes me.
“But it’s good. I’m on track to be chief next year.”
“Are you getting sleep?” he asks, unimpressed by the promotion and more concerned for my well-being.
“Kind of,” I admit through another yawn.
“You’re going to run yourself in the ground,” he mutters as he peppers the eggs, the crackling heat wafting across the kitchen.
“I’ll be fine.” I shrug off his concern and focus on the bread I’m now slicing. His worry has to be saved for Mom, not me. “Besides, I’ve got four-year-old twins. Sleep is a myth.”
A laugh bursts out of him, and gratitude blooms in my chest at the sound. It’s been months since I’ve heard him laugh. Everything with Mom has swallowed him whole, dimming that warm light he used to carry so easily. He isn’t quite the man who raised me anymore. The one full of life and hope and excitement. And it’s heartbreaking.
But then we get moments like this, where he’s laughing again, patting me on the back, that familiar spark in his eyes. Not the full glow I remember, but enough. Hope is still in there.
“I remember when you were six and you went through this weird sleep phase.” He chuckles as the memory fills his mind, flipping the sandwiches onto plates. “You’d climb into our bed every night, wiggling for hours. I don’t think I’d ever been so tired in my life. Even more than when you were a baby.” His laugh is bittersweet, one tangled with joy and loss. It’s the kind of laugh that comes with the aching realizationthat time has passed.
“At least as a baby,” he continues, “I could lay you on my chest, and you’d fall asleep. But at six, you were wild and chatty, asking me a million questions at two in the morning.”
“They say that’s a sign of genius,” I joke.
His smile softens as he turns off the stove. With his back turned to me, he still looks like the dad from my childhood—strong and unshakeable, dependable. But when he faces me again, I see the truth: the weariness in his eyes, the exhaustion carved into his brow, and the weight of life settling into every line of his face. His brown eyes flicker to mine, and I don’t know if it’s wishful thinking on my end, but it feels like he sees his own reflection. A young dad, tired but trying.
“Will you take this upstairs to the girls?” he asks, handing me two plates: one sandwich without crusts for Mom, one with extra pickles for Emma.
Something tugs at me, a small nudge to not leave him yet. “Dad, I—”
