“Lila baby, your eyes say different,” Mom says gently. “Come on, honey. We’ll read one story.”
“Two,” Lila mumbles.
“One,” Mom counters, but she’s already reaching for her hand.
Lila looks up at me. “Daddy?”
“I’ll be up in a bit,” I say, smoothing her hair back. “Nana’s gonna tuck you in. I gotta finish a couple things, okay?”
She nods, lower lip sticking out just enough to show she’d rather have me there, but not enough to push it. She’s always been careful that way. Careful not to be too much. It kills me.
I press a kiss to her forehead. “Love you, Lila.”
“Love you too,” she whispers, and lets Mom lead her down the hall.
The house settles into quiet as doors click shut one by one. The clock over the stove ticks softly, calm as a heartbeat. The fire pops. Rusty sighs and rearranges himself, old joints cracking.
I stand there for a minute, feeling the edges of the day finally catch up with me.
Everything’s done that can be done. Stock’s all fed and watered. Pipes are wrapped. Trucks are parked under cover. The forecast called for more snow overnight, but we’ve ridden out worse. The to-do list is as short as it ever gets.
I should go to bed. Be rested in case the cold snaps harder than they think, in case I break, in case tomorrow brings more than the usual Christmas chaos.
Instead, I find myself reaching for the coffee pot.
It’s probably a mistake to pour another mug this late. I do it anyway. The familiar motions, filter, scoop, pour, soothe me. Mom left the pot on warm, which means the coffee’s been sitting for a while. It’s strong and bitter, but I prefer it that way.
I grab my coat off the hook, shrug into it one-armed while balancing the mug in my other hand, and head for the front door.
Cold hits me as soon as I step onto the porch, the kind that stings your nose hairs and makes your breath show up in front of your face. Snow blankets the yard in clean, unbroken lines, except for the little paw prints Rusty left earlier and the faint ruts from the trucks.
Out beyond the yard, the highway that runs past the ranch cuts a dark line through the white, headlights from the occasional passing car sweeping by. The McCoy place sits right off the main road into town, our long gravel driveway stretching from the highway up to the house as an invitation… or a warning, depending on who you ask.
I lower myself onto the top step, wood cold even through my jeans, and set the mug down beside me. The quiet out here is different than inside. Inside, it’s made of people resting, of a house that’s still breathing. Out here, it’s big and open and humming underneath, the way winter fields always are. Silent but not empty.
I wrap both hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into my fingers, and take a careful sip. Yep. Burnt and perfect.
The porch light hums above my head, casting a soft golden circle around the steps. The snow just beyond it shines faintly blue in the moonlight. It’s still coming down, thin flakes drifting sideways in the slight breeze.
I take another sip of coffee and let my mind wander like it does when I’m alone.
It lands on Lila. It always does.
I picture her in the small bedroom at the end of the hallway, wrapped up in the pink quilt Mom sewed for her the first Christmas after… everything. Her little body curled around her stuffed horse, the one she named Star when she was three and the world still held room for wishes.
Mom will be reading something, probably that same worn-out book about a kitten at Christmas. Lila will interrupt to ask questions about the pictures, clever eyes tracking every detail.
She has so much love around her. Mom. Her uncles. Rose. Ellie. Even Rusty, who’ll sneak onto the end of her bed if he thinks no one’s watching.
It’s not the same as having a mother.
I know that. I feel it every time I watch Ellie look at Rose as if she hung the moon. Every time I catch Lila watching them with that expression that’s not quite envy and not quite curiosity, but something in between.
My jaw tightens. I take another drink of coffee, swallowing hard.
“You’re doing the best you can,” people tell me. “You’re a good dad.”
Most days, I believe them, at least for a few minutes at a time. I work. I show up. I tuck my kid in at night and make sure she never has to question whether I’m staying. But there are holes I can’t patch just by being steady.
