“There’s collaborative, and there’s dictatorial. You should stand your ground if you believe in your design.”
He squeezes my fingers. “What about you? That custody case today?”
I let him change the subject, recognizing the delicate balance we maintain around discussions of his father. “Yeah. Mom’s been in recovery for eight months. Dad’s fighting it, but his new girlfriend has substance issues.”
“The system’s going to do what’s best for the kid, right?” Skyler’s faith in institutions is one of his most endearing and frustrating qualities.
I shake my head. “The system’s going to do whatever overworked case workers, underpaid judges, and overwhelmed foster families can manage. ‘Best’ rarely enters the equation.”
“You’re making it better, though.” His certainty warms me. “One case at a time.”
“I’m trying.” I push my eggs around my plate. “Sometimes it feels like bailing out the ocean with a teaspoon.”
“Teaspoons add up.” He reaches across the table to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my cheek. “You’re making a difference, Harl. Those kids are lucky to have you.”
This is what I love most about him: his ability to see hope where I see only challenges. To believe in both the system and in me, sometimes more than I believe in myself.
“Thanks.” I lean into his touch. “I needed that today.”
We finish breakfast, trading sections of the newspaper, commenting on headlines and reading funny bits aloud. Outside, the city wakes fully, traffic sounds increasing as morning commuters brave the rain.
Skyler stands, collecting our plates. “I should get dressed. Henderson meeting won’t wait.”
I rise as well, catching his wrist before he turns away. “Hey. You’re brilliant. Don’t let your dad make you doubt that.”
Gratitude mixed with resignation flickers across his face. I understand then that he’s already conceded whatever battle awaits him with his father—and that realization settles uncomfortably in my chest.
I straighten his collar, though he hasn’t dressed for work yet. A symbolic gesture of support. “Knock ‘em dead.”
“Planning to.” He kisses my forehead. “Even the dragon.”
By dragon, we both know he means Robert Thompson. The name hangs between us, unspoken but present. Skyler disappears down the hallway to shower, and I’m left with dirty dishes and a nagging worry that some dragons can’t be slain, only appeased.
And appeasement always comes at a cost.
Warm soapy water fills the sink. The shower hisses to life, and I use the moment of privacy to call my dad. His voice fills the kitchen after two rings, gruff and familiar as worn leather. I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder, hands deep in dishwater, and feel myself smile despite the lingering unease from our breakfast conversation.
“There’s my girl,” Dad says. “Caught you before work?”
“Just cleaning up breakfast.” I scrub at egg residue on Skyler’s plate. “Court day, so I’m moving slow.”
“The Johnson case?” His memory for my work details always touches me. Former construction foreman, Jake Matthews, might look rough around the edges, but he listens better than most trained therapists.
“Yeah. Mom’s making progress, but these cases are never straightforward.”
“Like that Sullivan situation last year.” He chuckles. “You were ready to adopt those kids yourself.”
“Would have if their aunt hadn’t stepped up.” I rinse a mug, watching coffee grounds swirl down the drain. “How’s Maria?”
“Repainting the guest room. Again.” The affectionate exasperation in his voice makes me smile. My stepmom’s perpetual home improvement projects drive him crazy in ways he secretly loves. “Says the last color wasn’t ‘welcoming enough’ for when you visit this weekend.”
“We’re still coming,” I confirm. “Skyler requested Saturday off weeks ago.”
“Good, because Maria’s already planning the menu.” A pause, then his tone shifts to mock seriousness. “So, have you picked out the flowers yet, or are you still pretending you don’t care about that stuff?”
I laugh, the sound echoing in our empty kitchen. “Dad, the wedding’s still four months away.”
“Which, according to your sister, means you’re practically walking down the aisle naked with no plan.” He mimics Lily’s dramatic tone perfectly. “Apparently these things require CIA-level strategy.”
