“And what do you think?”
Elle hesitates. “I think penguins are cool.”
“I think so too,” I say, meeting her eyes. “And it would be a boring world if everyone was the same.”
She studies me for a second as I continue.
“You don’t have to stop liking something just because someone else is loud about it.”
“What if they laugh?”
“They might,” I say honestly. “Sometimes people laugh when they don’t understand something, but that doesn’t mean you change.”
And I’ll be damned if I let this little girl soften herself into something easier for others to hold.
Her shoulders square a fraction, and her eyes flick back over the group of moms. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
She nods once, firmer this time.Braver.
The studio door opens, and Miss Talia calls the children in. A few of the girls rush past us, including one with a tight smile just like her mother’s, who gives Elle a once-over before disappearing inside. Elle squeezes my hand.
“You got this, bug,” I tell her with an encouraging nod.
She lets go first, and I watch her walk into the studio on her own, chin tipped up just slightly.
The mothers resume their quiet conversations around me as we take seats lining the foyer to wait for the end of class. One of them glances my way again, curious in a way that feels less friendly and more assessing.
I meet her gaze without flinching, smile softly, and wait for her to look away first. I’ve dealt with versions of these people my whole life, and I know exactly how they operate. The polished smiles and careful little cuts designed to leave no visible bruise or scar.
But if they think I’ll be intimidated, they’re wrong.
I’m not here to audition for their approval. I’m here because Elle deserves someone she can rely on and trust, someone who can be in the room when her dad can’t, and who sees when she’s feeling small and helps her feel tall.
Through the glass panel, I see Elle take her place at the barre, and Olivia says something to her. Elle says something back, and Olivia looks away.
And when the music starts, I watch as she moves into first position confidently, her toe pointed exactly right.
***
The rink parking lot is a disaster. There’s trucks with department decals, police cruisers backed in like they’re staging a tactical response, people already chanting as we walk past.
Elle tugs me toward the doors. “We’re late!”
Inside, the bleachers are filling fast, red and blue hoodies scattered through the crowd like opposing flags.
Elle scans the ice, then up to some seats down one side of the boards, both of us scanning for Remi. “Daddy’s gonna win.”
“That confidence feels premature,” I murmur, spotting Remi and tugging Elle along.
“It’s because firefighters are braver,” she adds.
“Did Uncle Mason tell you that?”
“Yup.”
“That’s not how sports science works,” I chuckle.
