Page 115 of The Goat Next Door

She shouldn’t have to carry the stress of wondering if the man she’s with is going to make it back for dinner.

And God, the fear.

I wasn’t even in love with Lauren, but when she walked out, it changed me. I didn’t blame her then, and I don’t blame her now—but the idea of risking that kind of instability again, especially with Sophie watching, is enough to make me want to lock the door and never open it.

I’m not just scared for Sophie; I’m terrified for myself. I’m terrified of letting someone in deep enough to actually break me.

I’m trying to be a good man. I’m trying to protect her from the disaster of my reality, and I’m trying to keep my daughter’s world perfectly safe and stable.

But as I stare at the blinking cursor on my computer screen, the silence of the station feels less like a fortress and more like a tomb.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

By Monday morning, the tension in my own skin has tightened to a snapping point.

Sophie is sitting at the kitchen island, her little legs swinging back and forth, aggressively drowning a frozen waffle in maple syrup. Her pink kindergarten backpack is already zipped and waiting by the front door.

“Daddy?” she asks, her voice muffled around a mouthful of waffle.

“Yeah, Soph?”

“Can we go see Emmy before school? Just for five minutes?” She looks up at me. “I want to show her my drawing. She said she likes drawings with lots of glitter.”

My chest constricts so tightly I can barely take a breath.

“Not today, sweetie,” I say. I walk over and wipe a smudge of syrup off her chin with a napkin. “Ember is… she’s really busy this week. We need to leave her be.”

Sophie’s little brow furrows, her bottom lip clear-cut into a pout. “But she’s always home before school. She gives me the funny crackers shaped like bunnies.”

“Not today, Soph,” I repeat, a little more firmly than I intended.

She picks at the edge of her plate, her energy instantly dropping. “Is Ember mad at us?”

The question feels like a knife sliding right between my ribs.

No, baby. She’s not mad at us. She’s hurt by me.

“No,” I choke out, kneeling down so I’m eye-level with her. “She’s not mad at you. Never at you. Daddy just… we just have a lot of things to take care of right now, okay? Let’s get your backpack.”

The drive to the primary school is unusually quiet. Sophie stares out the window, tracing patterns in the condensation, and I drive with one hand gripped so hard against the steering wheel my knuckles are white.

I drop her off at the kindergarten gate, watching her line up with her class, her little pink backpack bouncing against her shoulders.

She looks small. Safe. But the relief I usually feel when she’s tucked away into her routine doesn’t come.

There is just an empty, hollow ringing in my ears.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

I pull the command truck into the gravel lot of the town bakery, needing to grab a dozen rolls for the shift crew’s dinner tonight before I pick up Sophie from her after-school program.

I kill the engine, rubbing the palms of my hands violently against my face.

Just get the bread, Lawson. Go to the station. Go home. Sleep.

I step out of the truck, the gravel crunching beneath my heavy station boots. The afternoon sun is bright, blindingly so, making my headache spike behind my eyes.

I push open the glass door of the bakery, the little bell chiming overhead, and step inside.