“You can’t give up,” she repeats, more firmly this time. “You have to try again. That’s what we’re supposed to do, right?”
I stare down at her.
Her eyes are serious now. Sleepy, but serious. Daddy Bear is crushed between us, his stitched little smile warped against my shirt.
“Pen—”
“Do you love her?”
The question steals every bit of oxygen from the room.
I haven’t told Penelope what Carly was to me, not really.I didn’t give it a name, didn’t fold her into what was happening in case it all went south, but it’s affected her anyway.
My throat works once, twice.
Penelope waits.
There is no judgment in her little face, no manipulation, no strategy. Just the honest expectation that adults should know what they feel and say it.
“Yes,” I say, but it comes out broken.
Her eyes widen slightly.
I pull in a breath, but it shakes. “Yes, baby. I love her.”
I love her.
I love her.
I love her laugh, her mouth, her stubborn chin, her soft heart. I love the way she sketches when she thinks no one is watching and the way she argues football calls with more passion than most retired players I know. I love the way she kneels to talk to my daughter at eye level. I love the way she made this house feel like a home I wanted to come back to.
I love her, and I let her leave.
Penelope nods, apparently satisfied with my answer, wholly oblivious to the wreckage it left. “Then you have to try more.”
I let out a long, slow breath. “Try more?”
“Uh-huh.” She shifts in my lap, warming to her own plan. “You bring her things.”
“Things…?”
“Like chocolates,” she says. “Or flowers. Mommy likes flowers sometimes.”
I manage not to react to that comparison. She’s four and she means well.
“Okay.”
“Or pretty things,” she adds, nodding gravely. “Girls like pretty things.”
I arch a brow despite myself.“And then what?”
“Then you say sorry again.”
“I did say sorry, bug.”
She gives me a look so unimpressed it could have come from Dana. “Then say it more.”
God help me, a real laugh punches out of my chest this time. It hurts, but it’s real.
