I glance at Kate. Her eyes are shiny. Her mouth presses together like she’s trying not to let her feelings spill out in front of her kid.
“If you want me there,” I tell Evie, “I’ll be there.”
“Good,” she says firmly, as if she’s just finalized the plan. “Because Mommy needs help with the candles. She always lights her hair on fire.”
Kate groans, burying her face in her hand. “One time. It happened one time.”
Evie giggles, then looks between us with a grin so bright it should come with a warning label. “I like this.”
“You do?” I ask.
Evie nods, suddenly serious again in that way kids get when they’re about to say something that cracks you open. “Yeah. You make Mommy smile more.”
Kate’s throat bobs when she swallows. She strokes Evie’s hair, voice careful. “That’s all I want, baby. For you to feel happy and safe.”
Evie snuggles closer, a yawn stretching her mouth wide. “I am.”
Her eyelids flutter, then drop. Within minutes she’s asleep, Matilda wedged under her arm, her head resting against Kate’s side like it belongs there.
The movie keeps playing. The house settles into quiet again. Kate doesn’t move for a long moment. Like she’s afraid if she does, she’ll wake Evie—or herself.
I watch her stare at her daughter’s sleeping face, and I can see the war behind her eyes. The fear. The love. The relentless pressure of doing everything right.
She finally exhales, slow and shaky, and meets my gaze over Evie’s head.
“That went…” she whispers, voice barely there, “better than I thought.”
I nod, keeping my tone low. “Yeah.”
“She’s something special,” I say quietly.
Kate’s mouth trembles into a tired smile. “Yeah. She is.”
We sit for a while, the three of us tangled in the soft glow of lamplight and I realize—I don’t just want to protect this. I want tobelongto it.
Evie’s light as a feather when I lift her from the couch. She stirs once, mumbling something about Matilda, then settles again against my shoulder.
Kate walks ahead of me, flipping on the hallway light. The walls are lined with pictures—Evie at the park, Evie in a princess dress, Evie in a high chair with frosting on her nose with a happy first birthday banner above her. Every photo tells the same story: one woman doing everything she can to make life good for her child.
I tuck Evie into bed, easing Matilda beside her. She curls instinctively around the stuffed dinosaur, soft snores already starting.
Kate stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching us with that gentle, protective smile that I love to see.
“She’s out,” I whisper.
“She always crashes after big days,” she says quietly. “Especially when she’s excited.”
I glance down at Evie one more time before straightening. “She’s lucky to have you, Kate.”
Her voice softens. “I’m the lucky one.”
We step out into the hallway, and she flips off the light. The house is dim now, the only glow coming from the kitchen light where the lilacs sit in their vase.
When we reach the front door, she turns to face me, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Thank you,” she says.
“For what?”
“For tonight. For how you handled everything with her. You were…perfect.”
