But somehow, it works.
We cook together. Sort of. She yells at me for seasoning too much, I pretend not to understand measurements, she lets me win when the food turns out edible.
Caelix dances to music with one shoe on and peanut butter on his face. Trots up to me mid-spin and demands “up” with all the authority of a tiny king.
I lift him.
Every time.
No questions.
And the kid curls into my side like he’s been doing it since birth.
Like it’snatural.
Alaina watches us sometimes, chewing her lip like she wants to say something. Like there’s something stuck between her ribs trying to claw its way out.
But she doesn’t say it.
Neither do I.
Instead, we laugh.
Over dumb cartoons. Burned toast. The time she tried to teach me a dance move and I knocked over a lamp with my elbow.
“You’ve got the grace of a collapsing tower,” she gasps between wheezing giggles.
“Grace is overrated,” I say, catching her around the waist and twirling her again just to feel her yelp.
It’s stupid.
Perfect.
Terrifying.
On the third night,it happens.
The kind of thing that doesn’t seem like much at first.
Caelix stirs around midnight.
Whimpers through the monitor, small and cracked.
Then, the word.
“Daddy?”
Not “Dada.”
Not a babble.
Daddy.
Clear. Reaching.
Like he’s calling out for someone specific.
Someone he thinks isme.
