It was a lie. A calculated, deliberate lie. I could manage Megan at a carnival without help. I’d managed her through far more challenging situations.
But I needed Cate to come. Needed to get her out of this house, away from whatever dark thoughts were clearly consuming her. Needed to do something—anything—to pull her back from the edge she seemed to be teetering on.
“Please, Cate?” Megan tugged on her sleeve, her excitement barely contained. “Please please please? It’ll be so much fun!”
Megan was bouncing now, literally bouncing, her entire body vibrating with the kind of uncomplicated joy that only children could manage. She was jumping up and down, her school uniform rumpled, her hair flying.
“We can get cotton candy! And play games! And you can win me a prize!”
Cate’s eyes softened as she looked at my daughter. I watched the conflict play out across her face—the desire to say no, to maintain distance, to not impose herself on our family outing.
And the inability to resist Megan’s enthusiasm.
“I don’t know,” she said, but her voice had changed. Warmed slightly.
“Come on,” Megan pleaded. “Please? You’re the best at games. You have the best ideas.”
That was objectively untrue. Cate’s strategy at games was chaotic and impulsive and frequently resulted in spectacular failures.
But Megan loved her for it.
I watched Cate’s resistance crumble.
“Okay,” she said finally, and Megan shrieked with delight, launching herself at Cate in a hug that nearly knocked her backward on the couch.
Cate’s arms came up automatically, holding my daughter close. And for just a moment—a brief, unguarded moment—I saw her close her eyes and breathe in, like Megan’s embrace was the first good thing that had happened to her in days.
Which, given what Fitz had told me, was probably accurate.
“Thank you,” I breathed.
She looked up at me, her eyes meeting mine over Megan’s shoulder. There was something vulnerable there, something raw and uncertain.
“For what?” she asked.
For existing. For being here. For letting me help you even though I have no idea what I’m doing.
“For being willing to help,” I said instead. “Saturday afternoon. I’ll arrange for us to leave at one o’clock.”
“Okay,” she whispered.
Megan was still chattering, already planning which games she wanted to play, what prizes she wanted to win, whether the Ferris wheel would be scary or fun.
But I was watching Cate.
Watching the way she was holding my daughter, the way her expression had shifted from hollow to something approaching present.
It wasn’t a solution. One carnival wouldn’t fix whatever Tracy had broken.
But it was a start.
It was me, finally, doing something other than maintaining distance and pretending I didn’t care. It was me, crossing a line I’d drawn and deciding that her well-being mattered more than my carefully constructed professional boundaries.
It was me, taking a risk.
And as I watched her smile—a real smile this time, not the careful facade she’d been maintaining—I decided it was worth it.
Whatever consequences came next, whatever complications arose from this decision, it was worth it.
Because she deserved to smile like that.
And I was going to make sure she did.
