Page 3 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

She talks and I listen, and the park breathes quietly around us while the breeze moves through the trees and children shout somewhere near the swings.

While she explains how the daddy rabbit saves everybody in the end, a quieter thought sits in the back of my mind.

Her story has a father who always comes home.

I glance sideways at her. Storm-gray eyes, dark curls that never cooperate with a hairbrush, and a grin that appears suddenly and takes over her entire face.

Sometimes the resemblance sneaks up on me and sometimes it punches me directly in the lungs.

Today it’s more of a quiet ache.

Ivy leans against my shoulder and watches the page fill with quick lines and silly expressions. “What are you going to do at the hospital tomorrow?”

“Probably the same things I always do.”

“Which are?”

“Coloring,” I say. “Talking to kids. Explaining scary machines in ways that make them less scary.”

“Like when you told me the MRI was a donut camera.”

“Exactly like that.”

My job description technically says Pediatric Child Life Specialist, which sounds extremely official and slightly confusing to most people.

In reality it means I spend my days helping frightened children cope with hospitals, needles, surgery, and the strange parade of adults in scrubs who keep asking them to hold still.

Sometimes we draw.

Sometimes we build blanket forts.

Sometimes we just sit quietly while they cry.

It’s not glamorous, but it’s meaningful, and after Boston imploded around me I learned to appreciate work that helps people breathe a little easier.

“Mommy?”

I look up again.

Ivy’s staring across the park toward the swing set, where a man’s pushing his son while the kid laughs so loudly that half the playground turns to look. She watches them thoughtfully for a moment before she turns back to me. “Do you think my daddy would push me on the swings?”

Children notice patterns long before adults admit they exist. I close my sketchbook slowly and set the pencil across the page. “I think,” I say carefully, “your daddy would probably love pushing you on the swings.”

“Really?” The joy in her tone makes my heart lurch.

“Really.”

She considers this. “Would he like ice cream?”

“I imagine so.”

“Good,” she says decisively. “Because strawberry is the best one.”

I smile and wipe a smear of pink from her wrist.

“I have no doubt you’d convince him.”

Satisfied, Ivy hops off the bench and runs toward the grassy field where a chaotic group of kids are attempting to organize a game of tag. Her yellow skirt flashes through the sunlight as she darts between them. I watch her for a while.