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Smiling, I prepare myself to lie to my baby girl again.
Is that why she always asks?
Can she see that the story I tell her isn’t the whole truth?
Still, I won’t let it take from the moment because it’s moments like this I cherish most. Even if I have to lie, just a little, to protect her.
“Alright,” I begin, settling back into the pillows with her head on my chest. “Do you remember how I got that scar?”
“You got it when you were learning how to ride a bike,” she recites, her lips curving into a smile.
“Your grandpa was teaching me. I must’ve been about your age.” I pause, letting the nostalgia wash over me. “And, well, let’s just say I wasn’t the most… graceful learner.”
Hannah giggles through a yawn. “What happened?”
She must know this story by heart now, but I keep going anyway.
“Well, I was doing pretty good at first. But then…”
“Squirrel,” we both say.
Her giggles intensify, easing the knot in my chest.
“It frightened me so much that I lost control of the bike. I fell right into a bush of thorns. That’s how I got this scar.”
I should feel guilty, but I don’t. The truth is uglier.
The story is true. I did fall off my bike, but I escaped without scars.
That scar on my ankle came much later.
“I can’t believe you fell because of a squirrel.”
“Yep,” I confirm. “Scared me half to death.”
Her laughter fills the room, her joy overshadowing the nightmare from earlier.
She started school last week and spends the next half hour in a sleepy ramble about the book they’re reading in class. As her speech slurs into the silence, I hold her a little tighter, feeling her breathing even.
When I’m sure she’s sleeping, I tuck her into my bed and kiss her flushed cheek before slipping out.
Tonight serves as a reminder of why I’m here, why I’m doing what I’m doing. For Hannah. For us.
***
I sit alone on the porch steps in the pitch-black predawn, my fingers nervously tracing patterns into the wood. It’s too quiet, too still, mirroring the ominous dread creeping in.
Footsteps crunch on the grass, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts. We might be the only people on this land, but it could be full, and I think I would still know when he’s near. His steps are unhurried, steady, confident. It’s that inherent tranquility that lends me some courage, easing the knot of tension in my gut.
“You’re up early,” he says, running his fingers through his wet hair.
“I could say the same for you.”
He takes a seat next to me. “Couldn’t sleep. Went for a run.”
“It’s not even 6 a.m.”
“I like the quiet. Why are you awake, pretty girl?”
