10. Chapter 10 Eli #2
This isn't really a question for her. It's a question for me.
For a moment, I consider saying no. Not because there's anything wrong with the request. Because it feels like one more step toward something I still haven't figured out how to define.
The problem is that Sophie is looking at me with hopeful eyes.
I know that look.
I've known it since she was old enough to ask for an extra bedtime story. And I know exactly what happens when it disappears.
Her smile falters slightly.
That tiny shift is all it takes.
"That's fine," I say.
The relief on Sophie's face arrives so quickly that I almost laugh.
"Really?"
"Really."
She turns back toward Maggie.
"Please?"
Maggie glances between us before smiling.
"I'll make you a deal."
Sophie's eyes narrow.
"Is this one of those grown-up deals with rules?"
"Absolutely."
Sophie sighs dramatically.
"Okay."
Maggie holds up the book.
"I'll read with you if you'll read with me."
Sophie's expression changes immediately. The confidence drains away.
Reading aloud is still difficult for her. She's improving, but the hesitation remains.
Maggie notices too.
"I'll take the hard parts," she says gently. "You can take the easy parts."
Sophie considers that.
"What if I mess up?"
"Then we'll keep going."
"What if I mess up a lot?"
Maggie smiles.
"Then we'll keep going a lot."
For a second, neither of them says anything.
Then Sophie nods.
"Okay."
A few minutes later, I find myself standing in the doorway of Sophie's room while Maggie sits in the reading chair beside the bed.
The book rests open in her lap.
Sophie is tucked beneath the blankets with Gerald, her favorite stuffed giraffe, tucked under one arm.
Maggie begins reading.
Not in her normal voice. In a dramatically exaggerated voice that immediately makes Sophie laugh.
The next character receives an entirely different accent. The third sounds suspiciously like Earl. By the fourth page, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Sophie gives up entirely.
Her giggles fill the room.
"That is not what pirates sound like."
"You've met a lot of pirates?"
"No."
"Then my interpretation stands."
Sophie's laughter grows even louder.
Eventually Maggie pauses and points to a paragraph.
"Your turn."
I can see the hesitation immediately.
The same hesitation I've seen dozens of times before.
Sophie looks down at the page. Then up at Maggie. Then back down again.
Maggie waits patiently. No pressure. No correction. Just confidence. The kind that's borrowed until you learn to create your own.
Sophie begins reading.
She stumbles over one word.
Then another.
Maggie helps with the second and lets the first one pass.
By the end of the paragraph, Sophie is smiling.
By the end of the page, she's volunteering for another.
I remain in the doorway longer than I intend. Partly because neither of them notices. Mostly because I can't quite make myself leave.
The room feels peaceful in a way that catches me off guard.
For years, bedtime has been something I managed. Something I organized and supervised and completed before moving on to the next responsibility.
Tonight it feels different.
Sophie isn't performing. She isn't trying to be brave. She isn't trying to prove she can handle things.
She's simply being a kid.
She laughs at the funny voices. She asks questions about the story. She curls deeper beneath the blankets while listening to the next chapter.
Watching her, I realize how rare those moments have become.
From the doorway, I watch Sophie relax completely into the story.
I watch Maggie hand her confidence one page at a time.
And for the first time all day, the knot I've been carrying in my chest begins to loosen. Not because anything has been solved.
Because for one quiet evening, my daughter looks safe enough to simply be eight years old.
The story continues. Maggie gives every character a different voice, some more successful than others. Sophie corrects her twice and laughs both times. By now the book has become secondary to the performance.
The room feels warmer than it did when I first stopped in the doorway. Not physically.
Emotionally.
The kind of warmth that comes from people being comfortable together.
I can't remember the last time I paid enough attention to notice something like that.
For years, most evenings have followed the same pattern. Dinner. Homework. Bedtime. Laundry. Work schedules. Repeat.
There is nothing wrong with routine.
In fact, routine has carried us through some difficult years.
Still, standing here now, I realize how much of my life has become focused on keeping things moving.
Getting through the day. Managing responsibilities. Solving the next problem.
I don't spend much time simply enjoying moments.
Sophie does.
Maggie certainly does.
The thought arrives just as Maggie helps Sophie sound out a difficult word.
Instead of correcting her immediately, she waits. Sophie works through it on her own. The pride on my daughter's face when she succeeds could probably power the entire town.
Maggie notices it too.
Her smile softens.
Then, as though she senses someone watching her, she glances toward the doorway.
Our eyes meet.
For a moment, neither of us looks away.
I should probably say something.
Instead, I stand there like I've been caught doing something suspicious. Which, considering the circumstances, may not be entirely inaccurate.
One corner of Maggie's mouth lifts. Not enough to tease me. Just enough to acknowledge that she's known I was standing there for several minutes.
Then she does something completely unexpected.
She pats the mattress beside Sophie.
The gesture is casual. Almost absentminded. As though she's inviting me to join a conversation in the lobby instead of a moment that feels far more personal than it should.
"You can sit," she says quietly.
Sophie immediately looks up.
"Yeah, Dad."
I glance from my daughter to Maggie.
Neither of them appears willing to rescue me.
"If you want," Maggie adds.
The invitation hangs there between us.
Simple.
Harmless.
Entirely reasonable.
And somehow it feels more unsettling than any question she has ever asked.