Chapter 12 #2
Because children never realize when they're telling the truth.
They just do it. Without defenses. Without filters. Without realizing they're breaking your heart.
I clear my throat.
"You know those guys are still around, right?"
She doesn't answer.
Which tells me everything.
I try again.
"Toby still asks about you."
Tiny smile.
"Really?"
"Really."
"And Jamie?"
"Definitely Jamie."
"What about Liam?"
I laugh.
"Especially Liam."
That earns the smallest grin.
Progress, or so I think.
Then she asks: "What about Colby?"
And there it is, the real question, the one she's been circling all day, and the one hiding beneath family trees and hockey players and unusual silence.
I choose my words carefully, because suddenly every answer feels dangerous.
"Colby's still around."
She studies me.
Waiting. For more. For certainty. For promises.
Unfortunately, I don't have any.
The silence stretches, then she asks quietly: "But for how long?"
My heart drops. There it is. The thing she's been carrying. The thing she overheard. The thing she couldn't stop thinking about.
I force a smile.
A terrible mistake, because worried smiles never fool children.
"Nobody knows what's going to happen."
The moment the words leave my mouth, I want them back.
Immediately.
Because I watch her face fall. Just slightly. But enough.
Children hear truth differently.
What she hears is Maybe he is leaving. Maybe you should be worried. Maybe don't get attached.
And suddenly I've made everything worse.
I reach for her hand.
"Bug—"
"If hockey teams tell players where to go..."
Her voice is very small now.
"...what happens if they send him away from us?"
I close my eyes.
Briefly.
Because there are a hundred things I want to tell her.
-that Colby cares about us,
-that everything will work out,
-that people don't disappear when they matter.
The problem is that I've believed all those things before and so has she.
I squeeze her fingers.
"He hasn't gone anywhere."
"Yet."
The word nearly destroys me. Because that's not a child's fear.
That's experience talking.
That's abandonment talking.
That's Darren talking.
Not her father.
Not exactly.
But another man who promised he cared. Another man who left.
I pull her into my lap. She comes willingly. Which somehow hurts even more.
Her head rests against my shoulder. For a while we just sit there.
Snow is falling outside.
The family tree is still resting on the coffee table.
Then she whispers: "Will Colby leave too?"
There it is. The question. The real one. The one she's been trying not to ask. The one I've been trying not to hear.
I wrap my arms around her tighter.
And discover that I don't have an answer, not an honest one.
Not one that won't break both our hearts if I'm wrong.
So, I settle for the truth, the only truth I have.
"I don't know."
She starts crying.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just silent tears sliding down her cheeks, the kind that hurt most. Because they're real, they're scared, and they're trying so hard to be brave.
I brush one away, then another. And that's when she asks the question that finally shatters me.
"If he leaves..."
Her voice wobbles.
"...do we have to pretend we never knew him?"
For a second I can't breathe.
The room blurs. The family tree sits beside us covered in crayon hearts, crooked branches, and Colby's name. And all I can think is that this little girl isn't worried about losing a hockey player.
She's worried about losing family.
I pull her closer, hold her while she cries, and silently wonder when exactly Colby Reid became something neither of us knows how to live without.
Eventually the tears stop, not because the fear goes away, but because exhaustion wins.
That's the unfair thing about being almost seven. Even heartbreak has to compete with bedtime.
I help Jillie brush her teeth, help her into pajamas, and read exactly three pages of her book before she falls asleep against my shoulder.
Then I carry her to bed.
For a long time, I stand in her doorway.
Watching.
Making sure she's really asleep, the way parents do when they're trying to convince themselves everything is okay.
The house is quiet.
The snow has stopped.
Moonlight spills softly through her curtains.
On top of the dresser sits her family tree assignment that I brought upstairs.
I pick it up and study it again.
ME.
MOM.
SIR FLUFFERNUTTER.
COLBEE.
Crayon hearts surround all four names.
One branch holds a badly drawn hockey stick.
Another has what appears to be a cookie.
At least I think it's a cookie. Knowing Jillie, it could also be a potato.
My throat tightens, because nowhere on this page is uncertainty.
Nowhere on this page is fear.
Nowhere on this page is the possibility that people leave.
In Jillie's mind, Colby belongs exactly where she put him.
Beside us. Part of us. Family. It’s as though she never considered another possibility.
My chest aches, because for weeks I've been terrified of what might happen if I let myself fall for Colby Reid.
Terrified of needing him.
Trusting him.
Losing him.
Tonight, for the first time, I realize that may not be the biggest risk.
The biggest risk might be letting Jillie fall for him first.
And I have no idea how to protect either of us from that.
I set the paper back on the dresser.
Turn off the light and stand in the doorway for one last second.
Listening to my daughter breathe.
Wondering how something that started as a fake relationship became the most frighteningly real thing in our lives.