“I didn’t realize how good I had it back then,” he says. “I was so busy trying to keep us afloat. Keep my research on track, keep you from—” He stops. “I don’t know. Falling apart. I was so busy keeping us from drowning that I never stopped to think that maybe we weren’t drowningallthe time.”
“You were doing your best.”
“My best was a lot of frozen pizza and bedtime stories I made up on the fly because I’d readThe Very Hungry Caterpillarso many times I wanted to throw it out the window.”
“I loved those stories. The ones about the squirrel who solved mysteries.”
“That squirrel had absolutely no internal logic.”
“He had heart.”
“He had plot holes you could drive a truck through.”
I shrug. “I was four. I wasn’t exactly a harsh critic.”
He laughs, soft and low. His arm tightens around me.
“I didn’t know what I was doing,” he says. “I was thirty-two years old and completely convinced I was going to ruin you.”
“And yet here I am.”
“Yeah.” He finally looks at me. His eyes are wet, but he’s smiling. “Here you are.”
His hand moves from my shoulder to the side of my face. His palm is warm and slightly rough. It’s the same hand that held mine while we crossed streets, that helped me with math homework I pretended to need help with, that walked me down the aisle three years ago.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “I don’t say it enough, but I am. Every single day.”
I open my mouth to say something—you say it plenty, you don’t have to, I know—but the words get caught somewhere between my chest and my throat.
“I look at you,” he continues, “and I see this woman who is kind and smart and funny and patient and so much stronger than she gives herself credit for. And I think—I had something to do with that. Not everything. Annie had something to do with it, and Yiayia, and Cori, and Phoebe, and a thousand other people who showed up for you along the way. But I had a part.” His voice catches, just slightly. “I had a small part in making you who you are. And that’s the thing I’m most proud of in my entire life.”
I press my face into his shoulder. His sweater is soft. He’s worn it for as long as I can remember.
“You had more than a small part,” I say into the wool of his sweater.
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
He doesn’t argue. His hand moves to the back of my head, the way it did when I was little and scared of thunderstorms. The way it did when I was seven and crying over a hamster funeral. The way it did when I was twenty-five and called him at midnight to say I’d found the person I wanted to spend my life with. His fingers thread through my hair.
“You’re going to be a wonderful mother,” he says quietly.
I go very still.
“I haven’t—” I start. “I didn’t—”
“You didn’t have to.” His voice is gentle. “I know my kid. I’ve always known my kid.”
I pull back and look at him. His face is open, steady. No judgment, no disappointment. Just…recognition.
“Was it that obvious?” I ask.
“Only to me. And maybe to Annie. She hasn’t said anything, but she has a sixth sense about these things.” He pauses. “Also Brandon keeps looking at your purse like it contains classified information.”
I glance over at Brandon, who is definitely looking at my purse. He’s talking to Michalis about something, nodding intently, and absolutely glancing at the corner where my bag is resting against the wall.
“He’s a terrible liar,” Dad says.
