“Daddy?” Lila whispers.
I look down. Her eyes flick from my face to Rose. “Can we see Miss Rose’s mamasoon?”
I swallow around the lump in my throat.
“Maybe,” I say, careful. “We’ll see how she’s feeling, baby.”
“Okay.” Lila nods, accepting that.
She doesn’t ask the other question, the one that sits unsaid between us most days.
When’smymom coming?
She’s stopped asking it out loud. That doesn’t mean she’s stopped thinking it.
I angle my body so I can really look at her. She’s wearing the red Christmas sweater Mom knitted for her, the one with the slightly crooked snowman. Mom made matching ones for Ellie and Wyatt, but Lila’s is the one she fussed over the most. The one she measured twice, three times, muttering to herself about sleeve length and shoulder width. If she could just get this right, she could fill the other empty spaces, too.
“You doing okay, Beanpole?” I ask quietly.
Lila shrugs one shoulder, poking the snowman’s carrot nose with one finger. “Can we have cocoa after dinner?”
“Yeah,” I say. “We can do that.”
She nods, content with that much. Her side presses against mine, solid and warm. I breathe her in. Shampoo that smells ofstrawberries and the faintest hint of crayons. Everything that’s good in my life right now is sitting beside me, attention snagged on the way Nash is trying to balance a spoon on his nose and failing spectacularly.
“She gets more like you every day,” Mom says later, when dinner plates have been cleared, and the girls are showing Clay their paper snowflakes in the living room. Her voice is quiet, almost lost under the murmured TV specials and the pop of the fire.
I’m stacking dishes by the sink while Rose runs water and Boone dries. The windows over the counter are fogged from the heat of the kitchen, but I can see the faint white glow of snow in the yard beyond.
“How’s that?” I ask.
Mom passes me a serving bowl, her hands reddened from hot water.
“She watches,” she says simply. “Like you did. Eyes always moving. Taking everything in before she decides what she thinks.”
Boone huffs a faint laugh. “That’s one word for it.”
Rose bumps his hip with hers. “I like it. Someone’s gotta balance out all the impulsive cowboy energy in this family.”
“Hey,” Nash protests from the couch. “I will have you know my impulses are highly refined.”
“That doesn’t even make sense,” Clay says.
“It sounded important, though,” Nash replies.
Ellie dissolves into giggles, nearly dropping her snowflake. Lila catches it for her, holding it carefully while her cousin recomposes herself. Rusty takes that moment to sneak closer to the table, his nose hovering near the leftover ham on the counter.
“Rusty,” I warn.
He freezes. Slowly, his eyes cut toward me, full of innocence and betrayal.
“Don’t give me that look,” I say. “You already conned Ellie out of half her roll.”
Mom sighs. “Just give him a piece, Dallas. It’s Christmas.”
“Thought we weren’t body shaming the dog,” Nash calls.
I cut Rusty a small piece anyway. He gulps it down, tail thumping against the cabinet. If he could talk, he’d probably call this a win for diplomacy.
