Liam #2
“Daddy!” She held out her arms hopefully, and Liam crossed the room in three long strides, gathering her into a hug that felt like both redemption and accusation.
Sunny stood, offering him a small, sad smile. “I’ll leave you three alone,” she murmured, moving toward the door.
As she passed him, Liam caught her hand, a brief moment of connection. “Thank you,” he whispered, unable to articulate everything he meant by those two simple words.
She nodded, gently withdrawing her hand from his grip. “Goodnight, Liam.”
For the next twenty minutes, Liam lay beside Hailey, listening to her sleepy account of her day at school, her fears about the monster in her dream, her hopes for the weekend ahead.
He stroked her hair, just as Sunny had been doing, marveling at its silky texture, the perfect curve of her small ear, the trust in her drowsy eyes.
When she finally drifted back to sleep, he kissed her forehead and carefully extricated himself from her bed.
In the hallway, he paused, torn between seeking out Sunny and retreating to the solitude of his office. The thought of facing her — of seeing the hurt and disappointment in her eyes, of attempting to explain his inexplicable behavior — was almost unbearable.
With a heavy sigh, he headed to his office, closing the door firmly behind him.
The familiar surroundings — the desk piled with papers, the walls adorned with team memorabilia, the shelf of trophies gathering dust — offered no comfort tonight. He sank into his chair, powering up his laptop with mechanical movements.
Game footage filled the screen, plays from last season that he had watched a hundred times before. He focused on the moving figures with singular intensity, as if the answers to life’s most profound questions could be found in the X’s and O’s of hockey strategy.
Hours passed. The house settled into deeper silence around him. His eyes burned from staring at the screen, his back ached from hunching over the desk, and still he pushed on, using work as a shield against the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.
A soft knock at the door finally broke his concentration.
“Liam?” Sunny’s voice, hesitant but determined. “Can we talk?”
He glanced at the clock — 3:17 AM. She should have been asleep hours ago.
“Come in,” he called, not looking up from his laptop.
The door opened slowly. Sunny stood in the threshold, hair tousled from restless sleep, wearing an oversized T-shirt that fell to mid-thigh. She looked both vulnerable and resolute, her jaw set despite the weariness in her eyes.
“It’s late,” he said unnecessarily. “You should be in bed.”
“So should you.”
When he didn’t respond, she stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind her. “Liam, we can’t go on like this.”
“Like what?”
“Like strangers passing in the night. Like the past few months never happened.” She moved closer, perching on the edge of his desk. “Like we didn’t lose a child together.”
Liam’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“I know you don’t. But we need to.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “If not with each other, then with someone. A counselor, maybe. Your parents. Anyone.”
“There’s nothing to say,” he insisted, eyes still fixed on the screen. “It happened. It’s over.”
“Is it?” Sunny leaned forward, entering his line of sight. “Because it doesn’t feel over to me. And I don’t think it feels over to you either.”
He finally looked up, meeting her gaze directly for the first time in days. The raw emotion he saw there — grief, yes, but also determination, compassion, even love — was almost his undoing.
“I can’t…” he began, then faltered, unsure how to put into words the tangled mess of emotions churning inside him.
“Can’t what, Liam?” she pressed softly.
“I can’t do this again,” he admitted, the words escaping before he could stop them. “I can’t lose someone else I love. I can’t survive it.”
Understanding dawned in Sunny’s eyes. “So you’re pushing me away before I can leave? Building walls so high I can’t reach you?”
“It’s not a conscious choice.” He stood abruptly, needing to move, to escape the intensity of her gaze. “It’s just… happening. Again. Like with Kate. I feel myself shutting down, shutting you out, and I can’t stop it.”
Sunny rose as well, taking a step toward him. “Yes you can. We can fight this together, Liam. I’m right here.”
She reached for him, her hand outstretched in silent invitation.
Liam stared at it for a long moment, torn between the desperate longing to accept her comfort and the paralyzing fear that had become his constant companion.
“I have to finish reviewing this footage,” he said finally, gesturing toward his laptop. “Coach wants my input before next practice.”
The excuse was flimsy, and they both knew it. Hurt flashed across Sunny’s face before she masked it with a practiced smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Of course,” she said, her hand falling back to her side. “Work.”
She turned to leave, pausing at the door. “Liam?” Her voice was soft, almost resigned. “I’m not Kate. And I’m not going anywhere unless you push me away.”
With that, she was gone, leaving him alone with the frozen images on his screen and the crushing weight of his own fear.
Liam sank back into his chair, running a shaking hand through his hair. Sunny’s words echoed in his mind, a truth he was too afraid to acknowledge: he was deliberately destroying the fragile hope they had built together, sabotaging his own chance at happiness out of fear of further loss.
The realization hit him with crushing clarity.
This wasn’t just about pushing Sunny away — he was trapped in the same destructive cycle that had nearly consumed him after Kate died.
The isolation. The emotional withdrawal.
The refuge in work and hockey. The wall of silence that protected him from vulnerability while simultaneously cutting him off from those who loved him most.
He had promised himself — promised Kate’s memory — that he would never go down that dark path again. In those early months after her death, he’d been barely present for the girls, moving through life like a ghost while they grappled with the loss of their mother.
Now here he was, methodically repeating each mistake, step by painful step.
The difference was that this time, he could see it happening, could feel himself slipping away even as he was powerless to stop it.
Like watching a car crash in slow motion, fully aware of the impending devastation but unable to turn the wheel.
His gaze drifted to the silver-framed photograph on his desk — Kate on their wedding day, radiant in white lace, her eyes shining with love and promise.
“I swore I wouldn’t do this again,” he whispered to the smiling face that would never age, never change. “I promised you I’d be better. For them. For myself. But I’m failing them again, Kate. Just like I failed you.”
He could almost hear her response: “You never failed me, Liam. You’re only failing yourself by refusing to live, to love.”
The thought brought no comfort. Only the stark certainty that he was watching himself systematically dismantle everything good in his life.
Outside his window, the first pale light of dawn crept across the horizon, illuminating the walls he had so carefully rebuilt around his heart — stronger, higher, more impenetrable than before.
And yet, for the first time, he could see them clearly for what they were: not protection, but a prison of his own making.