“Positive. We’ll be fine.”
And we are. Surprisingly, remarkably fine.
I introduce Ella to the new toys, and her face lights up with genuine delight. She immediately grabs the stacking blocks, knocking them over and laughing at the sound they make.
“Block,” I say, holding one up. “Can you say block?”
“Bah!” she responds.
“Close enough. Block.”
“Bah!”
We go back and forth like this, and I find myself oddly invested in getting her to pronounce it correctly. Not because it matters—what age do most kids even start talking?—but because I enjoy the game of it. The challenge.
She moves on to the pull toy, delighted when it moves behind her as she toddles around.
“Walk,” I say. “You’re walking. Walk.”
“Wah!”
“Better. Walk.”
“Walk!” she finally gets out, clear as day, and grins at me like she’s won the lottery.
I gasp in delight. “Yes! That’s right—walk!”
She claps her hands, proud of herself, and something warm spreads through my chest.
“Just wait till we tell your mom,” I say.
Over the next hour, we work through words as we play. She doesn’t repeat any other ones, but she’s listening. At least I think she is, even when she has her fist in her mouth, drool running down it.
At some point, I start explaining what I’m doing to her, even though she clearly doesn’t understand most of it. “This is archaeology,” I tell her, gesturing toward where her mother is working. “Your mama is very good at it. She’s uncoveringhistory. Things that happened thousands of years ago. Isn’t that interesting?”
“Mama?” Ella looks around for her.
“Yes, Mama. She’s brilliant, your mother. Even if she drives me crazy sometimes.”
Ella reaches for my face again, but this time I’m ready and catch her hands before she can grab my hair.
“No pulling,” I tell her firmly. “Gentle.”
I guide her hand to pat my cheek softly instead.
“Dat,” she says, and does it again.
“Yes. Good job.”
The phrase feels foreign coming out of my mouth, but Ella beams at the praise, so I guess I said it right.
We’re playing with the texture board—Ella is fascinated by the different materials, running her small hands over each one—when I feel eyes on me. I look up to find Georgia standing just outside the tent, watching us. She must have finished with the documentation and come to check on Ella. But she’s not moving to take her daughter back. She’s just… watching.
There’s surprise on her face, which makes sense. I’ve mostly treated Ella like a burden, and so this must seem like a sudden turnaround. How do I express to Georgia that it was inevitable, though? I needed something to shake me—in this case the email from my father—for me to really get my head in the game. For me to really become a team player.
But there’s something else in her expression too. Something that makes my chest tighten. Wistfulness, maybe. Or sadness. Like she’s seeing something that moves her but also hurts.
Our eyes meet, and the expression vanishes so quickly I almost think I imagined it. She walks over with a smile that seems forced.
