“I did know that,” I reply, kicking off my boots and stepping into the warmth of the living room. “But I’m amazed you know it at your age.”
“It was a big brain day!”
I stifle a laugh. “That’s the best kind of day.” I shift my gaze from her to Hildy, whose green eyes spark with a warmth that makes the notion of home feel real—a family of my choosing, a happiness that isn’t staged or rehearsed, but grown like the trees outside, vibrant and alive, just like her eyes.
“We got you some food too,” Lucy announces, puffing out her chest proudly. “Apfelpfannkuchen! Like Anna’s Oma makes. But mine is smaller.” Hildy’s laughter is soft, a blend of exhaustion and joy, and it resonates in my chest because I feel that same warmth.
The air carries the sweet scent of apples and cinnamon, grounding me. Lucy points toward the counter, where a slightly lopsided pancake sits on a plate, an artistic masterpiece in its own right. “For Anna,” she whispers, as if the secret makes it all the more significant.
“It is perfect,” I whisper back. And it truly is.
Hildy wipes her hands on a towel, leaning against the counter.
“My mommy Hildy was very busy today,” she says. “And she told me something important.”
Hildy winks at Lucy, her eyes sparkling with a love unmistakable in its sincerity. “I told Lucy that sometimes we need to let Lenzin watch games,” she explains, smiling, “because he has to be ready to defend the goal.”
Lucy’s gaze darts between us, first to me, then back to Hildy, and then back to me again.
“And,” Hildy adds, pausing for effect.
Lucy takes a deep breath, as if she’s about to share breaking news. “The Ottawa Otters!” she announces triumphantly.
“Ah,” I respond, nodding as if this revelation is entirely logical. “Of course.”
Lucy beams, reveling in her own excitement. Hildy bites her lip, suppressing a laugh, her eyes keenly observing me, gauging my response.
I step to Hildy, lean in and press a kiss to her forehead like it’s the most natural thing to do after returning home, and it feels that way.
Then I set Lucy on the island and lean down so were eye to eye. “You did very well today. Letters, cooking, hockey knowledge, language lessons,Oma?” I widen my eyes. “That’s elite work.”
She giggles as she presses her cool, apple-scented forehead to mine and holds us there, a small perfect grounding moment. I let her weight rest on me and tuck a strand of red hair behind her ear, and for a second, it would be so easy to believe this is all I’ve ever done, or ever needed to do—come home, hold a child who trusts you to be the person who cares what they learned that day. A child who wasn’t given that until Hildy, and in less than two weeks, instinctually knows she is safe now and loved.
Behind her, Hildy catches my eyes. She’s been watching us, a towel wrung between her hands. She’s tired but refuses to show it, and there’s a wariness she never puts down, not even when she’s laughing. But there’s something new in the way she looks tonight.
She leans her hip against the counter, and her hands slow, and I can sense her assessing the moment. Wondering if it will last, and if she is brave enough to believe in it could. I’ll make damn sure she is. Eyes locked I hope she sees it, the promise in mine. The sound of Lucy’s giggle, close in my ear, the smile thatautomatically forms on our faces seems to decide the question for both of us.
What I feel is not pride, exactly, and not the ache of missing my own home and family, but something unnamed, deeper. A sense that belonging is not a thing you earn but one you accept, if you have the balls for it, and I do. Massively, in both the literal and figurative way.
Lucy draws back, inspecting my face. I wink at her, and she beams while anointing me with a sticky little hand on my cheek. I wipe the syrup from her wrist, and Hildy’s mouth quirks up.
There are few silences I’ve been able to hold since they arrived without discomfort, but this one? It is easy.
Hildy breaks the companionable quiet with a voice so steady it should anchor ships: “Come eat with us.” She doesn’t phrase it as a question, but not as a command, either—more like she’s inviting me into something deeper than a shared meal. I feel no invisible chain yanking me back, no hesitation in the way that overgrown men sometimes describe when in a relationship. I feel quite the opposite.
I glance over at Lucy’s seat and see the booster I ordered has arrived and is strapped in tight to the barstool.
“Mommy Hildy, let me open the box. We read the instructions and put it where it’s supposed to go, right between your chair and hers.”
“And?” Hildy prompts.
“Thank you, Faulker.” She hugs me.
“No need to thank me. It’s important that a princess has a throne.”
“I’m not gonna be a princess,” she smiles. “I’m gonna write books like the ones Miss Noelle does and my Mommy Hildy reads and makes red lines on the computer.”
“You’ve taken on another job?” I ask, hiding the anger that brings me because it pisses on all the things I believed I was seeing as progress.
