“There’s someone who wants to see you today,” I manage, my throat tight as the words leave me. This is the part I’ve been dreading.
Her brows pull together, the question already forming. “Who?”
I draw in a breath that doesn’t seem to reach my lungs. “Her name is Emily,” I say carefully. Maybe if I speak slowly enough, it won’t hit her as hard. “She’s…your mum. Her name is Emily.”
Confusion flashes across her face instantly. I watch it settle in as she attempts to grasp what I’m saying.
This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. It’s not fair that I have to be the one to put that shadow in her eyes. I hate that I’m the one who has to watch innocence give way to doubt.
“But…Lucy takes care of me.”
The words are so small, so certain, they cut straight through me.
Fuck. How do I explain this to her? How do I make sense of something so tangled when all she’s ever known is me and the woman I brought in who’s done nothing but show up all the time and love her?
We’ve never talked about this. Never needed to. Isla never asked, and I never had the heart to open the door. We’ve just…lived, day by day.
I shut my eyes. When I open them again, she’s still watching me, wide eyed and waiting for me to give her an answer that won’t hurt.
“Lucy loves you very much,” I tell her, my voice unshakable even though I feel like I’m splintering inside. “And yes, she takes care of you just like a mum would. But…Lucy wasn’t here when you were born. Emily was.”
Her brows pinch tighter. “Why haven’t I met her before?”
The question knocks the air out of me. How do you condense years of silence and poor choices into something a five-year-old can comprehend?
“Sometimes, sweetheart, grown-ups make complicated decisions,” I manage, each word heavy on my tongue. “Emily… She wasn’t able to be here with us.”
“Why?”
God. I’m caught between the fury at Emily for vanishing and the ache of watching my little girl try to piece together something so far beyond her.
This conversation is allwrong. Isla should be running barefoot through the yard, giggling over bubbles, not sitting here with her tiny hands folded in her lap, waiting for answers to questions no child should ever have to ask.
“She couldn’t be here,” I say, my voice gruff despite my best effort to sound reassuring. “But just because Emily is coming to visit, that doesn’t mean Lucy is going anywhere. You don’t need to worry about that changing, okay?”
She nods slowly, but the doubt in her eyes guts me. I wish I could take it all away. Wrap her in enough warmth and certainty that she never even has to wonder.
I can’t shield her forever. The only thing I can promise is that I’ll fight like hell to protect what she does have.
And yet, in the back of my mind, a horrible thought gnaws at me. Did I just lie when I told her Lucy wasn’t going anywhere? The idea of ripping that security from Isla makes me sick.
The knock comes at exactlytwo o’clock. Isla looks up from her coloring book, her crayon frozen mid-stroke.
“Is that her?” she whispers, so soft it nearly breaks me.
My throat works around the lump lodged there. I force myself to nod. “Aye. Remember what we talked about, okay? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. If you’re uncomfortable at all, you tell me.”
She nods back, then slides off the couch. Her hand finds mine, her trust steadfast even when mine is anything but. I squeeze it gently before turning toward the door, every step heavier than the last as I reach for the handle.
Emily’s standing there with a smile that’s entirely too bright and forced, her shoulders wrapped in some cardigan that looks deliberately chosen—soft, homey, maternal. It’s a costume, and my stomach twists at the effort she’s put into playing a role she cast off years ago.
“Hello, Isla,” she says, her voice pitched just a little too high, as if she’s speaking to someone else’s child in a grocery store aisle.
Isla shifts against my leg, pressing close. She peeks out from behind me, silent but watchful, studying Emily with curiosity.
“Come in,” I say curtly. I step aside, keeping myself angled just enough between Emily and Isla.
She breezes past, her eyes looking everywhere but me. They skim over the mantle crowded with family photos, Isla’s crayon masterpieces taped crookedly on the fridge, the shoes kicked off by the door. Our life is scattered across every surface. I swear I see a flicker of regret, longing, or maybe recognition of the life she almost had.
