"You’re both lying," she says.
"Support your husband," I tell her.
"Support your daughter," she shoots back.
Maddie points at Natalie.
"Exactly."
Traitors.
I tighten the first skate, then the second.
Cross the laces.
Pull.
Thread.
Pull again.
Double knot.
Secure.
Maddie watches every move like this is sacred ritual.
Maybe it is.
When I was a kid, my dad laced mine the same way.
Tight enough to trust.
Strong enough to hold.
No hesitation.
I tap the toe of her skate.
"How’s that?"
She flexes her ankle.
"Good."
Then more firmly, because she’s my daughter and drama lives in her bones, "Perfect."
She stands. Tests the blades on the rubber mat.
Then throws both arms around my neck hard enough to nearly knock me sideways.
"Thanks, Daddy."
There are moments in life when a man understands he’d commit actual felonies for the people in front of him.
This is one of those moments.
I kiss the top of her helmet.
