Page 4 of Sexting My Ex’s Dad

Six years.

Six years of building a life from scratch in a city where nobody knew my history, nobody spoke my name in hospital hallways, and nobody made my nervous system react the way Ivy’s father did. I’ve had dates since then, but they’ve mostly been well-meaning experiments in forgetting someone who proved extremely difficult to replace.

Running was the only option I had back then. Some days I still believe that.

Other days I wonder what would have happened if I’d stayed.

I look up just in time to see Ivy sprint across the grass like a small chaotic missile, her arms pumping and her sneakers thudding against the dirt path as she races toward the playground.

“I’m watching!” I call.

She leaps onto the lowest swing with the grace of someone who has never once worried about gravity or dental insurance, then twists her body sideways and begins pumping her legs.

The swing climbs higher and higher.

“Look!” she yells.

“I see!”

“You’re not looking!”

“I am absolutely looking!”

A dad nearby glances over with an amused smile while his toddler investigates a sandbox like it holds state secrets.

Ivy kicks harder, the chains creaking as the swing arcs forward and back, and the wind pushes her curls away from her face while she laughs like she just invented joy.

It’s loud, reckless and perfect, and for a while, it soothes my heart. I watch her until she tires of the swing and comes to join me.

The park begins to empty slowly while the sky softens into that pale golden color that means dinner time is approaching, and eventually Ivy stretches her arms above her head and announces that she’s tired in the dramatic tone of someone who has been awake since approximately the invention of daylight.

“Alright,” I say. “Let’s head home.”

Our apartment is only a few blocks away, so we walk.

Ivy skips ahead on the sidewalk, and I carry the blanket and the bag while pretending not to notice that she keeps hopping over the cracks like they are lava.

By the time we reach our building, the sky has shifted from gold to dusky blue. Inside, the evening routine unfolds like it always does.

Shoes come off.

Hands get washed.

Ivy insists on helping me feed the neighbor’s extremely judgmental cat who lives in the hallway and believes we are all beneath him. Dinner for her is leftover pasta in a meat sauce and a handful of baby carrots that Ivy eats reluctantly while explaining that carrots are suspicious but acceptable.

Afterward we end up on her bed with one of her favorite books, and she curls into my side while I read the story of a bear who is very bad at hibernating. Her eyelids start drooping halfway through. “Mommy?”

“Hmm?”

“You forgot the voices.”

I sigh and perform a dramatically terrible bear voice that makes her giggle. The giggle fades quickly into a yawn. By the time I carry her to bed, she’s half asleep with her cheek pressed against my shoulder.

I tuck the blanket around her small frame and smooth her hair away from her face.

Storm-gray eyes blink open for a second.

“Love you,” she murmurs.