Before anyone can say another word, Isla comes barreling into the room, full of energy.
“Why don’t we go sit down?” Lucy suggests, gesturing toward the dining table.
Emily follows Isla, and Lucy watches them go with a tight jaw. I touch her back, just gently.
“We’ve got this,” I say under my breath.
She nods once.
Dinner is fine for the first few minutes. Emily even makes a few decent attempts at small talk, but then the atmosphere shifts.
“You look tired, Lucy,” Emily says casually. “Everything okay?”
Lucy doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Daddy’s been taking extra good care of Lucy,” Isla pipes up, completely oblivious to the undercurrent of tension. “He makes her special tea.”
My gut churns as I watch Emily’s expression shift, her eyes sharpening with interest.
“Special tea?” she asks, her voice light but probing. “That’sverythoughtful, Aidan.”
Lucy’s hand finds my thigh under the table. Theanxiety is practically radiating from her, and I want nothing more than to end this conversation before it goes any further.
“Lucy’s been working too hard,” I say evenly, cutting off whatever Emily’s fishing for.
“Ah. I see,” Emily murmurs, but her gaze doesn’t leave Lucy’s face. “Playing house takes a toll, I’m sure.”
The barb lands exactly where Emily intends. Lucy goes rigid beside me and my temper flares, but before I can respond, Lucy sets down her fork with deliberate care.
“I think it’s admirable, really,” Emily continues. “That Lucy’s stepped into these responsibilities soeagerly.”
Isla looks up with wide, earnest eyes, her fork paused halfway to her mouth. “What ‘sponsibilities?”
I swear to god, if she doesn’t back off?—
Lucy straightens beside me, totally composed. Her hand finds Isla’s under the table—I can see the slight movement—and squeezes.
And just like that, Emily loses her power. Lucy isn’t some delicate thing you get to handle with polite cruelty. She’s a woman who holds her ground and the hands of the people she loves.
“Adult things, sweetheart,” Lucy says quickly. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
Isla doesn’t let it go. Her brows pinch as she turns her big, curious eyes on Lucy. “Like taking care of me?”
The room stills.
Emily blinks, clearly not expecting that. What did she think? That she could throw these kinds of accusations in front of a child and it would go unnoticed? Isla’s too clever for that.
Lucy hesitates, just for a second. Then she nods, tucking a strand of Isla’s hair behind her ear. “Aye. A bit like that.”
Isla tilts her head, considering this with all the seriousness a five-year-old can muster. “I like when you take careof me,” she finally says. “You make better pancakes than Daddy, and you always know which bandage to use when I get all scraped up, which happens a lot.”
That’s my girl. This is what Emily doesn’t understand—love isn’t about blood or obligation. It’s about showing up, day after day, in all the small ways that matter.
Emily’s fork clatters against her plate. “Well,” she says, her voice strained, “that’s very sweet, Isla. But Lucy isn’t?—”
Oh hell no.
“Lucy isn’t what?” The words come out rough, cutting through whatever poison Emily was about to spill.
