1. Adriano
Letty wakes up before the alarm. She always does. My girl is a creature of habit, just like me. The need for routine is something we share.
I hear the rhythm of her bare feet against the hallway floor, first uneven, quick, then a small stumble before she corrects without stopping. There’s a soft thud against the wall halfway down, but she doesn’t slow.
Then—
“Daddy!”
She bursts through the door and launches at me before I can turn.
Her small body ploughs into me full force. Arms tightening around my waist, face pressed into my thigh like she’s anchoring herself there. The pan hisses sharply behind me, bacon grease hissing and spitting and filling the kitchen with a delicious scent.
I steady us without thinking, one hand braced on the counter, the other dropping to her back. A rare feeling of peace washes over me. Only a very few people can evoke it, but nobody does it like Letty. She’s my reason for every breath I take.
Shaking off the melancholy, I glance down at her. “You’re up early,” I say.
“I woke up,” she says into my pant leg, voice muffled, like that explains everything.
“That tends to happen every day, I’m happy to say.”
She squeezes tighter, a giggle erupting even though she doesn’t really understand what I mean or the relief behind it.
I let her stay there a second longer than I need to before I bend and lift her, my hands sliding under her arms, bringing her up easily.
She settles immediately.
Arms around my neck. Legs tucked in close. Her cheek presses against my shoulder, still warm from sleep. Her hair brushes my jaw—soft, tangled, carrying the faint sweetness of her shampoo.
Apple.
I close my eyes for a second.
Just long enough to feel it.
Then I open them and reach past her, turning the heat down before the bacon burns.
“You beat the alarm,” I tell her.
“I always do, Daddy.”
I look at her. “You’re very sure about that.”
“I am,” she insists, pulling back enough to look at me, her mouth already tilting into a cheeky smile.
I smooth a hand over her hair, pressing down the worst of the knots.
That’s going to be fun to wrangle into a braid this morning.
I love her confidence. I want my daughter to be fierce, and kind, gentle, and brave, but mostly I want her to be who she is without having to apologize or dim her light.
I kiss her head and she snuggles closer.
These moments with her are the best part of every day for me, but unfortunately, they’re short.
“Stay up here,” I say, setting her on the counter far enough from the stove that she can’t reach it, close enough that she can still see everything.
My hand stays at her back until she’s steady.
“I’m helping,” she says.
“You’re supervising.”
“That’s helping.”
She swings her legs once, heel tapping lightly against the cabinet, then stills, attention locking onto the pan.
I remove the bacon and then crack the eggs against the counter.
Clean break, no shell.
She leans forward slightly, watching me intently.
I missed a piece once. It was small, barely there, but she found it anyway and cried like something irreversible had happened.
I haven’t missed one since.
“Do we have strawberries?” she asks.
“In the fridge.”
She doesn’t wait and slides off the counter before I can stop her.
My hand shoots out, catching her arm as her feet hit the floor too fast, too uneven.
“Letty.”
“I’m fine, Daddy,” she says, already pulling away.
Of course she is.
She drags the stool across the tiles, the scrape louder than it needs to be, and climbs up properly this time, steadying herself with both hands as she peers inside the fridge.
Better. At least she didn’t try to climb the glass shelf like last time. I swear this child is going to be the death of me.
She pulls the container out and sets it down with more care than she used in getting to it.
“They’re small,” she says, peering inside like she’s been personally inconvenienced.
“They’re still strawberries. Just because something is small, that doesn’t mean it’s not perfect.”
She glances at me, weighing it, then nods. “Okay.”
I rinse a handful under cold water, and chop them into quarters, the sound filling the quiet space between us. She watches that too.
Everything is a process with her.
I set them beside her eggs, bacon, and toast. “Table.”
She exhales like I’ve asked too much but climbs down again—slower this time—and carries her plate with both hands, elbows tucked in, careful. Apparently, she’s too big for me to carry her plate now.
She’s growing up too fast and I’m not ready.
She climbs into her chair, adjusts herself twice, then starts eating, focused and deliberate.
I sit beside her with my coffee that’s already lukewarm and tuck into my eggs.
Halfway through her toast, she leans sideways, her shoulder pressing lightly into my arm like she forgot she moved away.
I don’t shift; the contact is for her, but it soothes me too.
“You have preschool,” I say.
“I know.”
“You’ll need your new shoes and your book bag.”
“They’re by the door.”
I glance toward the hallway, and sure enough, she’s set them there, ready.
“I put them there,” she adds, not looking up.
“I can see that.”
She nods, satisfied, and takes another bite of strawberry.
“And Isabella’s mother will be here after you finish to take care of you.”
That slows her down. “Just today?”
“Today and tomorrow. Maybe the rest of the week.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “Because Mrs. H left?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Her husband took a job in Chicago.”
Letty thinks about that, serious in the way only children can be serious, like she’s trying to measure Chicago against the rest of the world. “Is Chicago far?”
“Far enough.”
“Farther than Uncle Nico’s?”
“Yes.”
“Farther than the moon?”
“No.”
She nods. That settles it.
“Who comes after Isabella’s mommy?”
“Someone Isabella knows.”
“Do I know her?”
“You met her once at Uncle Nico’s house. Her name is Casey.”
“Is she pretty with hair like Belle?”
I grit my jaw as I try to temper my reaction to that comment.
Because yes, Casey is pretty. More than that, she’s beautiful.
She’s also loud and brash and overly confident and grates on my nerves, but also, if her references are real, which they are because I checked—a damn good nanny.
I obviously don’t voice that. “Yes, she has hair like Belle.”
“Yay. She played dragons and princesses with me and let me be the dragon. Not like stupid Rory O’Connor who said girls can’t be dragons.”
“Letty, we don’t call people stupid. But you are correct that Rory is wrong. You can be whatever you want to be.” God, it’s hard being a responsible parent when what I really want to do is tell Rory O’Connor’s dad that he’s raising a misogynistic asshole.
“When?”
“When, what?”
Letty rolls her eyes, like I’m the idiot who can’t keep up. “When is she coming?”
“Friday.”
She presses a strawberry between her fingers, examining it before taking a bite. Juice stains the corner of her mouth. “Is she staying?”
My chest aches at the hope in her voice. My child has had more upheaval than any child her age should know.
“I hope so, Jellybean.”
Letty frowns. “You have to be nice so she stays.”
I lift my coffee to hide what almost becomes a smile. “I’ll make a note.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
She goes back to eating, apparently satisfied that she has corrected my character. “Are you going to work?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Big work or little work?”
Big work is the office at ISM Holdings, the company me and my brothers built and named after our mother. Little work is my home office.
“Big.”
She leans back slightly, considering that. “Tell Uncle Matteo he still owes me a pony.”
“He does not owe you a pony.”
“He promised.”
“Uncle Matteo promises a lot of things.”
Her mouth drops open in offense. “Daddy.”
“I’ll remind him.”
That’s enough.
She smiles, small and pleased, like she’s already won. Why Matteo insists on torturing me with these promises, which I absolutely know he’ll follow through on, is beyond me.
After breakfast, she insists on brushing her teeth herself because she’s a big girl.
I stand in the bathroom doorway while she climbs the stool, squeezes too much toothpaste onto the brush, and bares her teeth at the mirror.
“Two minutes,” I say.
“I know.”
She doesn’t, which is why I set the egg timer for her.
She hums through the first twenty seconds, gets distracted by a bubble on her lip, then spends another twenty trying to catch it with her tongue.
I don’t rush her.
There are parts of the day that need structure.
There are parts that don’t.
When she’s done, I wipe toothpaste from her chin with my thumb. She wrinkles her nose but lets me.
At the door, she shoves one foot into the wrong shoe.
“Other foot.”
She looks down. “Oh.”
I crouch and fix it, tightening the Velcro, then the other. Her hands land on my shoulders while I work, light and trusting.
When I go to stand, she throws both arms around my neck again. “One more hug.”
I don’t think there’ll ever be a day when I don’t make the time to hug my daughter when she needs it.
Always one more.
I lift her because I can. Because she still lets me.
Because one day she won’t.
The thought arrives cleanly and leaves a bad taste.
I don’t keep it. “Ready?” I ask.
“No.”
I reach for her bag. “We’re going anyway.”
She sighs like I’ve ruined her life, then grabs my hand.
Her fingers fit between mine.
Small. Warm. Sticky from strawberries, even after washing.
I let her hold on all the way to the car.
After I drop her off, I get a call from Isabella’s mother asking if she can come early. She wants to bake with Letty after preschool and wants to know what we have. So I head back to the house instead of to work.
Everything always feels off with her out of the house. It’s too quiet; the energy is different, lonely almost. Her shoes are gone from the door, but one of her hair clips sits on the hallway table. Pink enamel. A tiny, chipped flower.
I pick it up and set it in the dish with my keys.