She picks a pink-patterned piece of fabric and I secure it in place. Then do the same with her next selections.
“Daddy left again,” she whispers.
My fingers spasm on the fabric.
Then I force myself to gentle my hold and keep sewing. “Your Daddy is just on a road trip,” I say carefully. “He’ll be back late tonight, remember?”
“But he always leaves,” she says, her voice wet with tears. “And what if he leaves like my mommy left?”
Damn, she’s breaking my heart.
I drop the fabric onto the table then tug her into my lap, hugging her tightly as I try to sort out what to say. In the end, I just go with my gut. “You know what my favorite part of making blankets like this is?”
She sniffs, but at least she’s not pulling away. “What?”
“That even though all the pieces are different—they’re different colors, you see? And different types of fabric? And different sizes too?—?”
A nod.
“So even though someone might not think they make sense together, they do. Every piece is important.” I touch one corner then the opposite on the far side. “And even when the pieces are very far apart, they all still come together to make something beautiful. See?”
This may be way too high-concept for a four-year-old.
But I’m doing the best with what I’ve got.
And, thankfully, she nods.
“I think family’s like that sometimes too.” I smooth back her hair, cuddle her closer. “That even when we’re far apart we’re still connected.”
She doesn’t speak for a long moment. Then she slips out of my hold and traces the lines of the fabric on the table. “I think,” she eventually says, touching a bright pink square that’s patterned with grumpy cat faces, “this will be Daddy.” She touches a glittery piece in the middle. “And this will be me.”
Relief ripples through me so rapidly, I feel a little dizzy.
Or maybe it’s a bit more than relief.
Maybe it’s that I’m falling in love with this smart, sweet,bravelittle girl.
I smile at her and absently rub my temple.
Or maybe it’s something else too.
Because my head is throbbing and I feel a little hot and achy.
“I think those are the perfect choices,” I say, setting her back beside me.
“Finn?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Is your family connected too? Even though you’re far apart?”
My throat goes tight and I blink back tears as I lie to her for the first time ever. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re like that too.”
If connection is hurt and judgment and a lack of understanding.
Shoving those thoughts away, I focus back on the blanket. “What else should we add?”
Thankfully, she’s quickly distracted by fabric selection and we work for a little while longer. She’s still not as bubbly as normal, but she does tell me about her day.
