Page 8 of The Art of Ruin

She hums through the first twenty seconds, gets distracted by a bubble on her lip, then spends another twenty trying to catch it with her tongue.

I don’t rush her.

There are parts of the day that need structure.

There are parts that don’t.

When she’s done, I wipe toothpaste from her chin with my thumb. She wrinkles her nose but lets me.

At the door, she shoves one foot into the wrong shoe.

“Other foot.”

She looks down. “Oh.”

I crouch and fix it, tightening the Velcro, then the other. Her hands land on my shoulders while I work, light and trusting.

When I go to stand, she throws both arms around my neck again. “One more hug.”

I don’t think there’ll ever be a day when I don’t make the time to hug my daughter when she needs it.

Always one more.

I lift her because I can. Because she still lets me.

Because one day she won’t.

The thought arrives cleanly and leaves a bad taste.

I don’t keep it. “Ready?” I ask.

“No.”

I reach for her bag. “We’re going anyway.”

She sighs like I’ve ruined her life, then grabs my hand.

Her fingers fit between mine.

Small. Warm. Sticky from strawberries, even after washing.

I let her hold on all the way to the car.

After I drop her off,I get a call from Isabella’s mother asking if she can come early. She wants to bake with Letty after preschool and wants to know what we have. So I head back to the house instead of to work.

Everything always feels off with her out of the house. It’s too quiet; the energy is different, lonely almost. Her shoes are gone from the door, but one of her hair clips sits on the hallway table. Pink enamel. A tiny, chipped flower.

I pick it up and set it in the dish with my keys.

A glass is still drying beside the sink. There’s a smear of strawberry on the counter I missed, so I grab a cloth and wipe it clean. I don’t need Isabella’s mom thinking I can’t cope.

Isabella’s mother arrives exactly ten minutes later.

On time. Punctuality is something I appreciate.

I open the door before she knocks.

She takes in the space in a single pass—quick, quiet, assessing—before stepping inside.