Chapter 25 #2
“I don’t either,” Serena says bluntly from behind her, and when David glances up, she lifts one shoulder. “What? We’re not doing gaslighting today.”
Under any other circumstances I might laugh. As it is, the sound catches somewhere under my ribs and stays there.
Michaela’s eyes stay fixed on David’s face. Studying. Calculating. Assessing damage.
“How many visits?” she asks.
“Four visits to start,” David says carefully. “Then the judge looks at how they went and will decide if there’ll be more.”
Michaela absorbs that with an expression I’ve only ever seen on children forced to become older than they are. It’s too still. Too adult. It makes something primal and furious rise in me.
“Can I say no?”
The room goes quiet in the way rooms do when the truth is both obvious and unbearable.
David releases a calming breath. “You can always tell me how you feel. You can tell me everything. But the judge may still make you go for now.”
Her face doesn’t crumple. That would almost be easier to survive. Instead, she shrinks inward by half an inch, as if some invisible hand has reached into the room and tightened around her.
“I hate judges,” she says. “I can’t believe I ever wanted to be one.”
“Reasonable,” Serena mutters.
“Serena,” Layla says softly.
“I’m sorry, I know,” Serena says, pressing her lips together. “Inside voice. Supportive inside voice.”
Michaela takes off her backpack and lets it drop to the floor. Then she looks at me.
“Did you bring Archimedes?”
“No, sweetheart. I didn’t.”
“That’s unfortunate.” Her lips press together. “Do you think—” Her voice fractures. “Can I please have a hug? Because I’m in need of a hug.”
I’m on my knees before the sentence is finished.
She comes into my arms with the full-body desperation of a child who has reached the limit of what composure can carry and needs somewhere to set it down.
Her face presses into my neck. Her hands grip the back of my shirt.
She holds on with a ferocity that makes my ribs ache, my eyes burn, and every professional boundary I’ve ever maintained feel like tissue paper in a storm.
She sobs once. Just a single, wrenching sound that she buries in my shoulder as if she can muffle it enough to pretend it didn’t happen.
Then she whispers, so quietly that only I can hear: “I wish you were my mom.”
Tears press against the back of my eyes, and for a second I can’t breathe.
My hand flies to the back of her head—automatic, instinctive, the gesture I’ve made a thousand times with a thousand children, except this time it’s this child and these words, and the ache behind them is so vast I don’t know how to hold it without splitting open.
I don’t say me too. I can’t. Not because it isn’t true, but because she’s eight and she’s scared, and what she needs right now isn’t my feelings—it’s my steadiness.
My arms around her. The knowledge that someone is holding on and not letting go.
And because the last time I wanted something this much, I lost it so completely I had to rebuild my entire life around the hole it left.
I hold on anyway. I press my cheek to the top of her head and breathe in the smell of kid shampoo, new fabric, and something sweet that’s probably whatever Serena bribed her with at the mall, and I let the tears fall into her hair where she can’t see them.
Over her head, I meet David’s eyes.
He’s still crouching. His jaw is locked. His eyes are bright with the anguish of a father watching his daughter in pain, unable to stop it.
I mouth, She’s OK.
He nods. Even though none of this feels OK.
Michaela pulls back after a long moment. Wipes her face with her sleeve. Sniffs once.
“I’m fine,” she announces, in a voice that would not convince a jury.
“I know you are,” I say.
“I’m going to need more hugs later.”
“They’ll be available.”
“And cookies.”
“That can be arranged.”
She nods—a gesture so precisely David it makes my heart ache—picks up her shopping bags, and disappears down the hall toward her bedroom.
Layla exhales first. “Well,” she says softly, because there’s apparently no Hallmark card for your eight-year-old honorary niece has just had her heart broken by the legal system.
Serena drags a hand down her face. “I’d like five minutes alone with that judge, Kelsie, and the entire concept of family court.”
“Supportive inside voice,” Layla reminds her.
“That was my inside voice. And I think violence can be very supportive.”
David rises slowly from his crouch, looks down the hallway Michaela disappeared into, then back at Serena and Layla. “Thank you. For today. Audrey, too. Pass along my gratitude.”
Serena’s expression changes immediately. The fury stays, but it gentles around the edges for him. “Of course. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Layla steps forward and squeezes his forearm. “Call if you need anything. Food, backup, someone to sit on your couch and judge the world with you.”
“Leonie will have left something to reheat. But I may take you up on the rest.”
“You should.” Layla gives me a quick, warm squeeze on the arm as she passes. “Take care of each other.”
There is so much in that sentence that I almost choke on it.
Then they’re gathering bags, air-kissing the room back into motion, calling soft goodbyes down the hall toward Michaela’s bedroom. The door closes behind them a moment later, and we’re alone in the foyer.
I turn to David. “I should probably head out, too.”
His hand closes around my wrist before I’ve taken a full step.
“Stay.”
My pulse stumbles. “David—”
“Just until after dinner.” His fingers tighten slightly. “Please. It would matter to her.”
My eyes search his.
“I don’t want to make this harder,” I say softly.
“You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
His jaw shifts. For one second I think he’s going to let me go and retreat into that clipped, overcontrolled place he lives in whenever he’s asking for something he hates needing.
Instead he says, “I need you,” in a voice so low I feel it everywhere. “Please, stay.”
I glance at my watch—six-thirty. Archie’s existential crisis usually peaks around seven, but my sister owes me three favors and a kidney at this stage.
“I suppose I can call my sister,” I say, already pulling out my phone. “She’ll swing by. Check on Archie for me.”
David’s shoulders drop like I’ve just lifted a car off him. He doesn’t let go of my wrist. Just shifts his grip so our fingers slide together, casual and deliberate all at once.
“Thank you,” he says, gently kissing my hand before releasing it. And my chest feels too small for my heart.
I call Miranda, who answers on the third ring with, “If this is about Dad’s birthday, I’m ignoring all texts from that man for the next seventy-two hours.”
“It’s not about Dad,” I say. The sound of my voice—too high, too hollow—is enough for my sister to put her own emotional business on the back burner.
“Whoa. What’s going on?”
“I need you to go to my house and feed Archie.”
“OK.” She drags the sound out like it’s a question. “Is everything all right?”
“It is. I’m—something came up. I’ll explain later.”
“You want me to feed that enormous gaslighting muppet and not explain why your voice sounds all cagey right now?”
“Archie is a perfect gentleman.”
“He’s a sentient Swiffer. I’ll bring pizza crusts.”
“Thank you, Miranda.”
“You’re welcome. And don’t think I didn’t notice the way you’re dodging an explanation. There will be questions later.”
“I expect nothing less.”
“Good. Because I’ll be charging emotional support hours at time-and-a-half.”
She hangs up. I pocket my phone and glance up at David, his smile barely tugging up at the corners.
“Your sister seems nice.”
“She’s a pain in my butt. But I love her dearly.”
“I could say the same for my brother.”
“They’d get along.”
Michaela emerges from her room still wearing the purple coat, eyes pink but dry, chin at that angle that means she’s decided to be fine whether or not fine is available.
“I require tempura prawns,” she announces. “And not just any prawns. They must be the perfectly crispy kind. That’s essential.”
David’s expression softens. “I think we can manage that. Avocado rolls too?”
She considers this with the gravity of a trade negotiation. “Only if I get first pick of the prawns.”
“Deal.”
“And edamame. The warm kind. With too much salt.”
“Noted.”
She climbs onto the stool at the kitchen island and rests her chin in both hands. “I’d also like Archimedes.”
“Archimedes is at home,” I say. “Miranda’s feeding him for me.”
“Can she bring him? And the A-team too? We haven’t had our playdate.”
“You’re right. But Amelia and Angus will stay home with their dad. It’s a school night and they go to bed at seven-thirty.”
“Hmm. I’m a little disappointed about that.”
“I’ll let Miranda know.”
Michaela sighs. Then she looks at me sideways, something careful moving behind her eyes. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you have to leave too.”
“No, actually. I’m staying for dinner.”
The shift in her face is so immediate it almost hurts to watch—guarded to hopeful in the space of a breath.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Are you staying all night? We could have a sleepover. Daddy wouldn’t mind.”
David coughs.
Michaela ignores him. “We could watch a seal documentary. Archimedes would love it, but since he’s not here, I’ll narrate it for him later.”
“That might be a little much for a weeknight, monster,” David says, recovering. “But we’ll see how we feel after dinner.”
She looks at him. “You’re just saying that so I don’t get my hopes up.”
“Maybe.” His voice softens. “But the important part is, you have me and Nora for as long as you need tonight.”
Her gaze flicks to me, and what I see there isn’t the composure she’s been performing all evening or the bravery she wore like the purple coat.
It’s something younger. Rawer. The face of a child who has spent a very hard day being as strong as she knows how and has just been told she doesn’t have to keep doing it alone.
“Thanks, Miss Nora,” she whispers.
And I don’t think I’ve ever felt more needed and wanted in my entire life.