“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “I do. Someday.”
“You’d be a good mom.”
The words hit like a sucker punch. I have to look away, blinking hard, focusing on the napkin dispenser until I’m sure I’m not going to cry in the middle of an ice cream shop.
“Thanks, Maze.” My voice comes out rougher than I intended. “That’s really sweet.”
“It’s true.” She says it matter-of-factly, like stating the weather. “You let me get sprinklesandgummy bears. And you actually listen when I talk instead of looking at your phone.”
“Of course I listen. You’re interesting.”
“And you don’t make promises you don’t keep.”
That one lands heavily. I think about Sienna, showing up twice a year with expensive gifts and empty words, leaving Maisie to pick up the pieces.
“I try not to,” I say.
Maisie nods, swirling her spoon through what’s left of her ice cream, turning it into blue soup. “My mom says stuff but then doesn’t do it. Like she said she’d come to my dance recital, but then she had a ‘work thing.’” She makes air quotes with sticky fingers. “And she said we’d go to Disney, but that didn’t happen either.”
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“It’s okay. I’m used to it.”
She says it so casually, like it’s just a fact of her life, and that’s somehow worse than if she’d cried.
“You shouldn’t have to be used to it.”
She looks up at me, head tilted. “You’re better at this than my mom. The mom stuff, I mean.”
I can’t breathe.
I physically cannot draw air into my lungs because this six-year-old just said the thing I didn’t know I needed to hear and also the thing that’s going to wreck me completely.
“Maisie...”
“I’m not trying to be mean about her,” she adds quickly. “I love my mom. I just...” She shrugs those little shoulders. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”
I reach across the table and take her hand. Her fingers are sticky with sugar, and she squeezes back with surprising strength.
I don’t know what’s happening with her dad, not when my career could implode if anyone finds out how deep I’m already in. But I can give her this moment. This afternoon. This version of me that shows up.
“Can we go to the park after?”
“Absolutely.”
“And can you push me on the swings?”
“As high as you want.”
“And can you not tell Daddy about the ice cream before dinner? He gets weird about sugar.”
I laugh, and it comes out watery. “That might be hard. Your face is literally blue.”
She grins and licks her spoon. “Worth it.”
• • •
The park is mostly empty—a few kids on the climbing structure, a dad scrolling his phone on a bench, everyone bundled against the late afternoon chill. Maisie’s got her purple puffer coat zipped to her chin and a colorful pom-pom beanie. She makes a beeline for the swings, and I settle into the familiar rhythm of pushing her higher while she kicks her legs and shrieks.
