It’s almost enough to make me believe we’re normal.
She hums under her breath, too excited to stand still, chattering about lines and lights and how she’s sure she’ll remember every word this time.
When she catches me smiling, she gasps, feigning shock. “Papà, are you smiling right now?”
“Maybe,” I say.
“You never smile.”
“I’m smiling now, aren’t I?”
She grins, triumphant. “Because you know I’m the best princess in the whole play.”
“You were born for the crown, Principessa.”
She squeezes my hand, and for a moment I forget everything else—the headlines, the blood, the constant hum of danger that never really leaves my world.
For a moment, I just see her.
My reason. My anchor. My everything.
Inside the auditorium, parents fill the rows—phones out, soft laughter echoing under the cheap stage lights.
I take a seat near the aisle, scanning the exits automatically out of habit.
Old instincts die harder than I’d like to admit.
When the curtain rises, Sofia steps onto the stage in a pink dress too big for her and a crown that’s slipping to one side. She looks so proud she could light the whole damn room herself.
Something in my chest pulls tight.
I take out my phone, frame her in the screen, and press the shutter.
The picture catches her mid-smile—pure, radiant joy.
No shadows. No fear. Just my little girl being eight.
I stare at it for a long second before opening the messages and hitting send.
Me:
She’s on stage.
A moment later, the photo uploads.
It takes less than a minute before the bubbles appear.
Bella:
Tell her she looks just like the ladybug princess she is.
I can see her in my head saying it—soft voice, that quiet half-smile that still manages to undo me.
I glance back at the photo, thumb hovering over the screen. Then I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and watch as my daughter bows with all the grace of royalty.
She really does look like a princess.
But all I can think about is the womanwho said it.
