He leaves, and I’m alone with his daughter in his house, holding her small hand in mine.
No pressure.
The cookies are chocolate chip, and they’re incredible.
Maisie eats her two—she doesn’t even attempt a third, which makes me think Zayden oversold the negotiation tactics—and then gives me a tour of the house. Her room is upstairs, painted lavender, with glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and a small bookshelf overflowing with picture books.
“This is Ellie.” She holds up a well-loved stuffed elephant, gray and slightly balding in places. “She’s been my best friend since I was a baby.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“She’s a little old,” Maisie admits. “But Daddy says that just means she’s extra loved.”
My chest tightens.
We color for a while—Maisie is very particular about staying within the lines and even more particular about which colors go where—and then we watch an episode ofBluey, which I’ve never seen before but is apparently the greatest show ever created, according to Maisie.
“This one’s about when Bluey doesn’t want to go to sleep,” she explains very seriously. “It’s a good one.”
“Is that a problem you have? Not wanting to go to sleep?”
She considers this. “Sometimes. When Daddy’s not home, it’s harder.”
“Why?”
“Because...” She picks at a thread on the couch cushion. “What if he doesn’t come back?”
The question hits me like a punch to the sternum. I have inadvertently wandered into territory I have no business being in. Eating cookies and coloring and watching cartoons was my sweet spot. Not… this. But Maisie’s still looking at me.
“He always comes back,” I say carefully. “Doesn’t he?”
“Yeah. But my mom didn’t.” She says it matter-of-factly, as if she’s explaining that the sky is blue. “She was supposed to come back, and then she didn’t. So sometimes I worry.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m not equipped for this—for the casual devastation of a six-year-old who’s learned that people leave.
“Your dad loves you very much,” I finally manage. “I can tell.”
“I know.” She looks up at me with those dark, serious eyes. “He says I’m stuck with him forever.”
“That sounds like something he’d say.”
“Daddy talks about you,” she says, her eyes still on the TV.
I blink. “He does?”
“Mm-hmm. He says your name funny.” She scrunches her nose, thinking. “Like it’s special or something.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. I’ve always liked the way he says my name. I thought it was just me. My face feels warm.
“Do you like my daddy?” she asks next.
The question is so casual, so matter-of-fact, that it takes me a second to process.
“I... yes. He’s my friend.”
“Good.” She nods, satisfied, and turns back toBluey.
I sit there with my heart in my throat, wondering how a six-year-old just saw straight through me.
