Then I ask softly: "You want to tell me what's bothering you?"
Silence. Long enough that I think she won't answer.
Then: "The hockey guys were really fun."
The statement catches me off guard.
"Hockey guys?"
She nods.
"Toby."
A smile flickers.
"Jamie."
Another.
"Liam."
A pause.
"Colby."
The smile disappears.
And suddenly I understand exactly where this conversation is headed.
The Hockey Men Invasion.
She’s talking about the day they crowded into the bakery, filled every table, ate half our inventory, and turned the place into a circus.
Jillie had loved every second of it, especially seeing Colby belong somewhere, especially seeing him with people who cared about him.
At the time, it had felt harmless. Now it doesn't.
"That was a good day."
She nods.
"It felt like..." She hesitates.
"Like what?"
Her shoulders lift, then fall.
"Like family."
The word lands hard, harder than I expect.
It hit me hard enough that I have to look away for a second.
Because children never realize when they're telling the truth.
They just do it. Without defenses. Without filters. Without realizing they're breaking your heart.
I clear my throat.
