Because after everything we did, I pulled back instead of talking. Because I let fear decide that silence was safer than honesty when it came to the heat and tension between us. And now my kid is paying for it.
I could say a lot of things here. About complicated pasts and messy feelings and how adults specialize in sabotaging their own happiness.
Instead, I go with the truth a five-year-old can hold.
“Because she probably didn’t know she could come back so soon,” I say. “Sometimes grownups worry that kids are too busy to hang out.”
“That’s silly,” Lila mutters.
“Yeah,” I say. “It is.”
We sit in quiet for another moment. Her breathing starts to even out, the trembling fading from her shoulders.
“I miss her,” she says finally. “I liked it when she was here. The house felt fun.”
My sternum twists.
“Do you want to see her again?”
She nods, quick and fierce. “Yes. But what if she says no?”
“Then that’s on her,” I say gently. “Not you.”
She thinks about that, face scrunching as if she’s solving a math problem.
“Can you… ask her?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I can ask her.”
Her shoulders drop a little, some tension draining out.
“Okay,” she says. “But don’t say I’m sad. Just say I… would like to see her. Please.”
“You trying to protect her feelings now?” I ask, a little amused, a lot heartsore.
She shrugs, staring at the quilt pattern. “Maybe.”
I press a kiss to the top of her head. “You got a good heart, kid.”
She doesn’t answer, but she leans into my side, and that’s enough.
Typing to Faith is handling a live wire. Ridiculous for a grown man, but there it is.
I start and delete three different messages.
You forgot your promise to Lila.
Too sharp.
She misses you. I do too.
Too much.
Finally, I settle on:
Dallas: Hey. Got a favor to ask.
She replies quicker than I expect.
