There it is. The question. The real one. The one she's been trying not to ask. The one I've been trying not to hear.
I wrap my arms around her tighter.
And discover that I don't have an answer, not an honest one.
Not one that won't break both our hearts if I'm wrong.
So, I settle for the truth, the only truth I have.
"I don't know."
She starts crying.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just silent tears sliding down her cheeks, the kind that hurt most. Because they're real, they're scared, and they're trying so hard to be brave.
I brush one away, then another. And that's when she asks the question that finally shatters me.
"If he leaves..."
Her voice wobbles.
"...do we have to pretend we never knew him?"
For a second I can't breathe.
The room blurs. The family tree sits beside us covered in crayon hearts, crooked branches, and Colby's name. And all I can think is that this little girl isn't worried about losing a hockey player.
She's worried about losing family.
I pull her closer, hold her while she cries, and silently wonder when exactly Colby Reid became something neither of us knows how to live without.
Eventually the tears stop, not because the fear goes away, but because exhaustion wins.
That's the unfair thing about being almost seven. Even heartbreak has to compete with bedtime.
I help Jillie brush her teeth, help her into pajamas, and read exactly three pages of her book before she falls asleep against my shoulder.
Then I carry her to bed.
For a long time, I stand in her doorway.
Watching.
Making sure she's really asleep, the way parents do when they're trying to convince themselves everything is okay.
The house is quiet.
The snow has stopped.
Moonlight spills softly through her curtains.
On top of the dresser sits her family tree assignment that I brought upstairs.
I pick it up and study it again.
