Chapter 21 Butterfly Princess #2
We pull into our parking spot, and Hazel unbuckles herself. She’s out of the car and heading for the building before I can gather my purse.
Inside our condo, she disappears directly to her room, the door closing with a definitive click. Not a slam—she knows better—but the message is just as clear.
I stand in the kitchen, my body heavy with guilt and indecision. Opening the refrigerator, I stare blankly at the contents, trying to muster the energy to make dinner.
I pull out the box of mac and cheese—Hazel’s favorite comfort food.
As I set the water to boil, I begin chopping vegetables for a stir-fry for myself, my mind racing through increasingly desperate scenarios.
Could I send Dylan to handle the showcase?
No, we both need to be there—the co-sponsorship requires it.
Could I reschedule the recital? Impossible; it’s a group event with dozens of children.
Could I push the showcase? Not a chance; we’d lose the venue and half the artists.
Twenty minutes later, dinner is ready. I call for Hazel, not expecting a response. After the second attempt, I walk to her door and knock gently.
“Dinner’s ready, sweetie.”
“I’m not hungry,” comes the muffled reply.
“Hazel, I know you’re upset with me, and that’s okay. You’re allowed to be angry. But you still need to eat dinner.”
A long pause before the door cracks open. Her face is puffy from crying, and she’s clutching Miss Sparkles. She’s still in her leotard and tights, though she’s kicked off her ballet slippers.
She trudges to the table and climbs into her seat, pointedly avoiding my gaze. I serve her a small portion, knowing her appetite will be affected by her mood.
We eat in silence for a few minutes before I try again.
I set down my fork, suddenly not hungry. “Hazel, I know you’re sad. And I’m so, so sorry. If there was any way I could be at your recital, I would.”
“You could not go to your show,” she suggests, her logic simple and direct.
“I wish it were that easy, baby.” I reach across to smooth her hair, but she ducks away from my touch. “Lots of people need me there.”
“I need you, too,” she says, her voice tiny.
The simple truth of it stings deeply. She’s right, of course. And in this impossible equation, she’s the one who will remember the choice I make for the rest of her life.
“This company…” I say quietly, trying to find words she might understand. “It meant everything to your grandpa. I used to go there after school and do my homework in your grandpa’s office while he talked to people.”
“That’s boring,” she says skeptically.
“Not the way he was with people. He made their dreams come true.”
Her eyes widen slightly at this. “Like a wish?”
“Sort of,” I nod. “Musicians would bring him songs, and he’d help other people hear them. That’s what the showcase is for—helping new musicians, like your grandpa did.”
She considers this, her little face scrunched in thought. “I’m dancing, not singing.”
“I know, sweetie. And you’re such a good dancer.” I reach for her hand, and this time she doesn’t pull away. “That’s why it’s so hard for me.”
“What if,” I say, inspired by a sudden thought, “we made your butterfly wings super special? So pretty everyone at the recital will see them?”
She looks up, interest flickering despite her anger. “With sparkles? And ribbons that fly?”
“Absolutely,” I nod. “We could use the shiny fabric we saw at the store. The one that changes color. And maybe add some little crystals to catch the light.”
Her eyes light up. “Could we make them tomorrow?”
“We can start drawing them tonight, if you want,” I offer. “Make some pictures of how they’ll look?”
She hesitates, then nods. It’s not forgiveness, but it’s a temporary truce.
“Did you have fun at Dylan’s today?”
Hazel perks up. The sight of her wrapped around him flashes through my mind—the joy in her eyes showing me a version of Dylan I wasn’t prepared for. Patient. Playful. Soft in the places I thought were sharp. Something warm and unexpected tugs at me, a feeling I’m not ready to examine too closely.
“I have an avatar, and it looks like me,” Hazel says, a mile a minute. “And Rachel gave me stickers. I made Dylan’s office pretty.”
I smile into my mac and cheese. “I bet he liked that.”
“It was a surprise.” Hazel smiles.
“I’m sure it was,” I try to stifle my laugh.
After dinner, we sit at the coffee table with colored pencils and paper. Hazel scribbles wild, impossible wing designs—wings with fire, wings with rainbows, wings that glow in the dark.
“Can my wings have purple and blue?” Hazel asks, reaching for another crayon.
“They can have any colors you want,” I tell her. “It’s your design.”
She nods seriously, adding a swirl of blue to the already riotous explosion of color. For a moment, we exist in a bubble of peaceful creativity, the tension of earlier temporarily suspended as we bend over our shared project.
My phone buzzes. A text from my mother confirming she’ll be there for Hazel’s recital. At least that’s something. But the relief is quickly washed away by a fresh wave of guilt. I should be there. Not my mother. Not anyone else. Me.
The doorbell rings, slicing through my thoughts. We don’t get visitors, and my mom always calls before coming over. I sigh, wondering who it could be—tonight has already delivered one unwelcome surprise; I’m not in the mood for another.
I brush my hands against my skirt and head to the door, suddenly tense. Hazel trails behind, bouncing on her toes.
When I open it, my breath hitches.
Christian stands in the hall, suitcase in hand, wearing a devastating smile that always meant trouble.
“Daddy!” Hazel squeals and runs into his arms.
“Hey peanut,” he says, picking her up. Then he looks over at me, those familiar eyes sweeping over me in a way that makes my stomach knot.
“Hi Morgan.”