7. The Space Between Us #3
Dr. Sanders’ smile softened. “She’s already okay. She is grieving, and she is adjusting. Those are not the same as broken. The fact that she feels safe enough to express confusion and sadness tells me she trusts her foundation.”
“Am I doing right by her,” he asked quietly, needing that reassurance because most days he felt like he had no clue how to navigate the day.
Dr. Sanders held his gaze. “You are doing the work. That matters more than perfection ever could.”
The feeling of hope didn’t flood him dramatically at hearing Dr. Sanders words. It settled gradually, like warmth spreading through cold hands.
In the car, Zara climbed into her booster seat with less hesitation than she had shown entering the building. She buckled herself in, concentrating on the latch before leaning back against the seat.
“She’s really nice,” Zara said as he started the engine.
“I had a feeling you’d like her.”
Zara looked down at her fingers as if she was nervous to say what she felt. “I told her I miss mommy.”
The words were quiet, but they did not shatter him the way they once had.
“That makes sense,” he said gently. “It’s okay to miss mommy.”
“She said I can miss mommy and still be okay at the same time,” Zara continued. “That sounded weird at first. But then I thought about it, and it kind of makes sense.”
“It does,” he said, his voice steady even as his throat tightened. “Your heart can hold more than one feeling.”
Zara stared out the window for a moment, watching trees blur past. “I’m still the best little girl, right?”
The vulnerability in the question cut deeper than anything else had that day.
He reached back at the next red light and squeezed her knee lightly. “You have always been the best little girl. Nothing that happened changes that.”
Her shoulders relaxed further against the seat.
“Ms. Henderson says that too,” Zara added casually.
His hand tightened briefly on the steering wheel before he forced himself to breathe evenly. “She does?”
Zara nodded with certainty. “She’s the best teacher I ever had. Even when I have hard days, she still talks to me softly.”
Trevor listened carefully and tried his hardest to will his heart to slow down at the mention of Aniyah.
“I think she would be a really good mommy,” Zara continued, her voice thoughtful rather than excited.
The words landed heavy and light at the same time.
“What makes you say that,” he asked, careful not to infuse the question with too much but he noticed his voice go up an octave.
Zara considered it with the seriousness only children possess. “She’s nice even when she looks tired. Mommies are supposed to be like that.”
Trevor let that settle rather than rushing to correct or redirect because he was afraid he would agree and spark more hope in his little girl.
He never wanted to set her up for heartbreak, so instead, he remained quiet.
The school came into view ahead of them, the building familiar and steady in the fading afternoon light.
He parked the car and turned in his seat to look at her fully.
“You don’t have to figure out grown-up things,” he said gently. “Your job is just to be Zara.”
She smiled at that, satisfied. As he stepped out of the car and opened her door, he felt something shift inside him again.
The hope that was there early replaced itself with a heavier feeling, resolve.
Whatever the future held, he would build it carefully.
Because he had no choice, Zara deserved every bit of softness life had to offer and he would make sure she got it.
“Wow,” Zara exclaimed when she and Trevor walked into the multipurpose room that afternoon, the transformation was already underway.
In the span of a week, Aniyah had somehow turned chaos into structure.
Paper snowflakes draped from a fishing line across the ceiling.
A makeshift fireplace constructed from painted cardboard stood stage left, complete with tissue-paper flames.
The long cafeteria tables had been pushed back to create a performance space, and a borrowed spotlight from the high school theater department cast a warm wash over the center of the room.
A hand-painted banner reading A Christmas Story: A Second Grade Retelling hung slightly crooked above the stage, which only made it more charming.
They had one week left. And somehow, against all odds, the production was ahead of schedule.
Zara slipped from his hand and ran to join her classmates, her curls bouncing as she announced, “Daddy, today I get to float like a ghost!”
Trevor smiled. “Float responsibly.”
Across the room, Aniyah stood near the sound table, clipboard tucked against her chest as she coordinated with two PTA mothers about prop placement.
She wore a red sweater dress that fell just above her knees, the knit fabric hugging her in a way that made it difficult for him to pretend he was unaffected.
Her boots were low-heeled and practical, but nothing about her felt casual.
Her hair was pulled back into a soft puff, gold hoops catching the light each time she turned her head.
She caught sight of him for half a second.
Then she looked away to maintain her composure:
Professional. Focused. Unavailable.
Trevor adjusted the lighting board, refusing to smile at the fact that she had clocked him just as quickly.
The kids gathered onstage in various states of festive confusion.
“All right, everyone,” Aniyah called, her voice clear but warm. “From the top of Scene Three. Remember, we are projecting our voices. We are not whispering secrets to the floor. We want our parents to be able to hear us.”
A small boy dressed as Tiny Tim raised his hand. “Ms. Henderson, if I say ‘God bless us everyone’ too loud, will God hear me faster?”
The room erupted in laughter.
Aniyah pressed her lips together to keep from smiling too wide. “God has excellent hearing, Joseph. Just focus on the audience.”
Trevor shook his head, amused.
Two PTA mothers hovered near the prop table, both overly invested in the rehearsal and noticeably under-invested in subtlety.
One of them, blonde highlights peeking from beneath a knit beanie, sidled closer to Trevor as he adjusted the spotlight.
“You’re Zara’s dad, right,” she asked, her tone sliding into familiarity.
“I am.”
“I heard you’re in film,” she continued, crossing her arms in a way that felt strategic. “That must be exciting. Being in the industry and all.”
“It keeps me busy,” he replied politely.
Her smile lingered longer than necessary. “I imagine it does.”
From across the room, Aniyah’s pen paused mid-note. She did not look up at them, but Trevor was sure she heard them.
The second PTA mom chimed in, stepping closer. “We were just saying how lucky the kids are to have someone with real experience helping with production.”
Trevor gave a courteous nod. “Happy to help.”
“Maybe you could give me some pointers sometime,” the first one added lightly. “On lighting.”
He caught the shift in Aniyah’s posture then. The smallest tightening of her shoulders.
He kept his voice neutral. “Lighting is about balance. You don’t want to overexpose something that’s already bright.” The PTA mother blinked, uncertain if she’d just been redirected.
Across the stage, Zara drifted through her ghost cue, arms raised dramatically as she declared, “I am the Ghost of Christmas Past and I remember when you were mean!”
One of the boys playing Scrooge forgot his line entirely and whispered loudly, “What am I supposed to say again.”
“Regret,” Aniyah supplied calmly from below the stage. “You feel regret.”
The boy nodded with exaggerated seriousness. “I regret it very much.”
The room applauded.
In one week, they had gone from chaos and costume confusion to actual pacing. Lines were memorized. Cues were landing. Even the paper snow backdrop had stopped falling mid-scene.
Trevor found himself watching Aniyah more than the stage. The way she moved through the room with intention. The way she knelt to adjust a child’s scarf without disrupting momentum. The way she laughed when a line went sideways but never lost control.
They avoided being alone. That had become their silent agreement.
And yet, every time they crossed paths, the air shifted.
When rehearsal finally wrapped, children scattered toward backpacks and parents. PTA mothers gathered their things reluctantly, offering Trevor one last lingering smile before retreating.
Zara wandered over to him, rubbing her eyes.
“I floated good,” she murmured sleepily.
“You floated like a professional,” he replied, lifting her into his arms.
She wrapped around him easily, head settling against his shoulder as though that had always been her rightful place.
He thanked a few parents for helping out with the production, then waited.
Aniyah moved slowly now, packing up with deliberate care. She knew he was there. He knew she knew. When the room had emptied almost completely, she grabbed her bag and stepped into the parking lot. Trevor followed a few steps behind, Zara heavy and warm against his chest.
The evening air had cooled significantly.
He pressed his key fob, and his car engine hummed to life across the lot.
He walked to the backseat first, opening the door carefully and lowering Zara into her booster seat with the kind of precision that only came from practice.
She stirred slightly as he buckled her in.
“Love you, Daddy,” she mumbled.
“Love you more, Superstar.” He closed the door gently and turned.
Aniyah stood beside her car, parked directly next to his, keys in hand. She should have gotten in already. She should have left.
She had not .
He walked toward her unhurried, stopping close enough that the warmth between them returned immediately.
“You did good today,” he said quietly. “The kids look ready.”
Her chin lifted slightly. “They’ve worked hard.”
“And you haven’t?”