“Your mother isn’t—” Tyler caught himself, swallowing the bitter words. “Please, Emma. For Daddy?”
His phone erupted again. Gerald Parker’s fifth call. The team owner never called this early unless something was catastrophically wrong. Tyler’s job as team manager was hanging by an increasingly frayed thread, his distracted performances and late arrivals accumulating in his file like black marks against a future he couldn’t afford to lose.
“I need to take this, sweetie. Can you try to get dressed? Please?”
Emma’s face hardened into a miniature version of Darcey’s when she was angry. Without warning, her arm swept across the counter, sending her cereal bowl crashing to the floor. Milk and soggy cereal spread across the already sticky tiles.
“I HATE THESE CLOTHES AND I HATE THIS HOUSE AND I WANT MOMMY!”
The words slashed across Tyler’s heart, reopening wounds that had barely begun to scab over. His patience, eroded by weeks of similar mornings, finally crumbled.
“ENOUGH!” The word exploded from him with more force than he’d intended.
Emma froze, her eyes widening in shock before filling with tears. In the six months since Darcey had walked out, Tyler had never raised his voice. Not through the nightmares, the tantrums, the parent-teacher meetings where Emma’s teacher delicately suggested “behavioral concerns.”
“Emma, I’msorry. I didn’t mean to—”
But she was already gone, her small feet pounding up the stairs. The bedroom door slammed with finality, leaving Tyler standing in a kitchen that smelled of burned toast and failure.
His phone vibrated against the counter. He ignored it, sinking to his knees to clean the spilled cereal, the cold milk seeping through the knees of his khakis. The photos on the refrigerator — happier times at the rink, Emma on his shoulders after Coyotes games, the three of them at the lake house before everything fell apart — seemed to mock him from their cheerful magnetic frames.
When the phone rang again, it wasn’t Gerald Parker.
Sunny Anderson’s name illuminated the screen, a welcome change in the digital bombardment of his morning. He hesitated, then answered, unable to muster his usual cheery pretense.
“Hey, Sunny.” His voice sounded hollow even to his own ears.
“Tyler? Is this a bad time?” The background noise on her end — children laughing, Liam calling something about hockey gear, the domestic symphony of a functioning family —highlighted the empty silence of his own kitchen, broken only by Emma’s muffled sobs from behind her closed door.
“No, it’s—” The lie died on his lips. “Actually, yes. Everything’s a disaster. Emma’s refusing to get dressed, Gerald’s called five times, and I just screamed at my daughter for the first time since her mother left.” The confession tumbled out before he could stop it.
Sunny’s voice softened. “That’s actually why I’m calling. Liam mentioned things have been… tough.”
Tyler closed his eyes, embarrassment washing over him. His breakdown at the rink last week — confessing to Liam that he was drowning — still stung. The mighty team captain reduced to this: a man who couldn’t manage breakfast without crisis.
“I think I found someone who can help,” Sunny continued. “Her name is Willow Lloyd.”
“A therapist?” Tyler asked, the word bitter on his tongue. The team psychologist had already suggested counseling for both him and Emma.
“No, a nanny. But… she’s more than that.” There was something in Sunny’s tone that made Tyler straighten. “She was a preschool teacher for years, specialized in child psychology. She just got back to Kansas City after some time away.”
“Away where?” Tyler asked, wariness creeping in despite his desperation.
A slight pause. “She didn’t say exactly. Just that she needed to leave for a while. But Tyler—” Sunny’s voice lowered, taking on an earnestness that cut through his skepticism. “She specifically asked about helping your situation when she heard about you through our mutual friend at the children’s center.”
“She asked about me?” Tyler frowned, puzzled. “Why would she—”
“I think she might understand what Emma’s going through. What you’re both going through. In a way most people can’t.” Sunny hesitated again. “Different circumstances, but… let’s just say she gets it.”
Tyler’s gaze drifted to the stairs where Emma’s sobs had quieted to sniffles. His daughter’s pain was a living thing in their home, as tangible as the furniture, as persistent as the memories of Darcey that haunted every room. His own grief he could manage — had been managing, mostly by ignoring it — but Emma’s broke him anew each day.
“I don’t know, Sunny. A stranger in our home…” The idea of exposing their broken little family to outside judgment made his chest constrict.
“Just meet her,” Sunny urged. “No commitment. But Tyler… she’s remarkable with children. And there’s something about her—” She paused. “She seesthings others miss.”
Tyler’s phone buzzed with a text from Gerald:
Meeting in 30. Crisis level. Where the Hell are you?
