It meant Dani.
She’d been sending pictures all week. Not asked for—just sent. Like she knew I’d need them even if I wouldn’t say it.
Harper sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, nails half-painted, Dani hovering behind her with mock horror on her face.
Harper asleep on the couch, stuffed bunny tucked under her chin, Dani’s cardigan draped over her shoulders like it belonged there.
Harper and Dani at the kitchen table wearing ridiculous green face masks, both grinning like they’d cracked some kind of secret code.
They looked happy.
They were happy.
And for the first time since Harper was born, I didn’t feel guilty for leaving her.
That realization should’ve rattled me more than it did.
My thoughts went back to the call I had with Dani the night before, as she sat on the back patio long after Harper had fallen asleep. The crashing of the waves in the background. “I think I’m going to miss this,” she had said suddenly.
When I asked her what she’d miss, she had said, “Being here, waking up with the ocean. Watching Harper discover new things every day.”
Her words lingered in my mind that night, chasing away any hope of sleep. I realized I was afraid. Afraid of how attached she’d become to Harper, and possibly to me. Afraid of the idea that she might leave and take this newfound sense of warmthand stability with her. I feared losing the bond that had subtly woven itself into the fabric of our lives.
For some reason, those words had kept me up all night. She had built a bond with Harper, cared for her, and she’d slowly found herself tied into my home and into my head.
So instead of heading straight for my gate, I found myself standing in the middle of the airport gift shop. It smelled like burnt coffee and lemon disinfectant, shelves stacked with things nobody really wanted—flamingo mugs, novelty T-shirts, overpriced souvenirs.
I grabbed the easy thing first. A plush dolphin wearing sunglasses that I knew would cause Harper to lose her mind.
It was the second gift that stopped me, something for Dani.
She’d been more than a babysitter. More than help. More than a favor I could repay with a thank-you text and a paycheck. As I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, the thought struck me again—she’d stepped into my house like she’d always belonged there. I ran a finger absentmindedly over the edge of the candle lid, feeling the smooth surface. Dani had found the balance between structure and fun I’d spent years forcing myself to maintain. She’d kept my daughter’s heart light while mine stayed… careful.
I didn’t do careful by accident.
After Elena died, everything had become about containment. Feelings boxed up. Grief folded neatly into routines. Harper needed stability, not a father unraveling under the weight of what never got to happen—of a woman who never got to hold her daughter, never got to see her smile, never got to come home.
I wandered the aisles, already irritated with myself.
Key chains felt too thoughtless, but a necklace felt personal. There were coffee mugs stamped withTampa, lined up in neat rows, but none of it said what I was trying to say.
Then I saw the candles all lined up, in simple matte glass jars. Each one carried a name that leaned into the coastal theme printed on the label:Beach Haven,Ocean Breeze,Home.
That one made me stop.
I lifted the lid and breathed it in. It was a grounding scent with notes of sage, cedar wood, and something warm beneath it all.
It reminded me of the way Dani moved through my house. She wasn’t trying to replace anything or fix what couldn’t be fixed. She was just there, present, brightening everything without asking permission.
Like the way she’d said,You don’t have to do this alone, without making it sound like pity.
I turned the candle over, reading the description.
For when the world feels too loud.
That was her.
Not loud. Not demanding. Just… solid.
