“She loves you.”
“I know.” The admission seemed to cost her something. “I didn’t make it easy for her to love me. I was horrible, actually. Angry and mean and determined to hate her for not being my dad. But she just… kept showing up. Kept trying. Kept choosing me even when I gave her every reason not to.”
Pride swelled in his chest—not for himself, but for Corinne. She’d fought for this prickly, hurting child and had refused to give up despite the rejection and resentment. She had proventhrough actions rather than words that Anya mattered and that family could be built from choice rather than blood.
Just like he wanted to do now. For all three of them.
“Your father chose well when he married her,” he said quietly.
“Yeah.” Anya picked up another component, her movements steadier now. “I just wish I’d figured that out before he died. Maybe if I’d been less of a brat, he would have known I approved.”
“He knew.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because fathers know these things.” He thought of Lira, of her independence and her curiosity about the world. “Even when our children push us away or test our patience, we know they love us. It’s written in every interaction, every moment of defiance, every grudging acceptance of care.”
Anya looked up at him, her blue eyes suspiciously bright. “You have kids?”
“I had a daughter.” The words came easier than expected, like speaking them aloud to this hurting child somehow made the loss lighter. “She died twenty years ago. But I remember what it felt like to be her father. To want her happiness more than my own. To see the world through her eyes and understand that every challenge was a test of her growing independence.”
“What was her name?”
“Lira.”
“How old was she?”
“Five going on fifteen.” With the same fierce determination and clever mind as the girl next to him. “She would have liked you. You both share the same stubbornness.”
A ghost of a smile touched Anya’s face. “Was she a brat too?”
“Sometimes.” The memory made his chest ache, but it was a good ache. A reminder that love didn’t disappear with death, that the people we lost remained part of us even in absence. “Sweet and smart and stubborn, curious about everything, and determined to get her own way.”
“She sounds like fun.”
“She was the light of my life.” He handed Anya the next piece they needed. “Your father would be proud of you. Of how you have survived, of how protective you are of Corinne and Mikoz, and how you are facing this impossible situation with courage instead of despair.”
“I don’t feel courageous. I feel terrified.”
“Courage is not the absence of fear. It is moving forward despite it.”
They worked in silence for several more minutes, the bed taking shape beneath their hands. Anya’s confidence grew as they progressed, her suggestions becoming more assertive, her movements more assured. She had good instincts, both for the construction and for what Mikoz would need.
“Make sure the base is wide enough that he can’t tip it over when he gets bigger,” she said. “And the mesh needs to be tight enough he can’t get his head stuck.”
“Noted.”
“And we should pad the edges. Babies are basically tiny drunk people. They fall into everything.”
Despite himself, he smiled. “Where did you learn that?”
“Corinne. She was reading about infant development for a paper she was writing on children’s literature. She talked my ear off about gross motor skills and object permanence and why babies put everything in their mouths.” Anya rolled her eyes, but there was affection in the gesture. “She gets really into research mode. It’s kind of adorable in an annoying way.”
He glanced over at Corinne, who was definitely not reading her data pad anymore. Her attention was completely focused on them, her expression hopeful. Their eyes met, and something electric passed between them. Heat and promise and possibility.
Anya made a gagging sound. “Okay, that’s gross. Stop looking at each other like that.”
“Like what?” he asked innocently.
