Brianna stops me. “Mya?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re here.”
The words land soft and fiercely in my chest at once. “Me too, Bri,” I say. “Me too.”
43
WORTH
The house is quiet when I step inside.
I set my keys in the bowl by the door and listen. No Maggie humming, no footsteps thudding down the stairs, no Brianna watching a show at full volume.
The alarm panel blinks green and the place smells like roast chicken and lemon, so I know they’re home.
I take off my shoes and head for the kitchen. The counters are wiped, the dishwasher is running and there are two glasses turned upside down on a dish towel to dry. Someone folded the dishcloth into a neat square—Mya’s doing. She straightens small things when she’s thinking too hard.
I check the family room. Empty, save for a wolf sketch that sits on the console with a half-moon penciled behind it.
All right. So either they’re upstairs or in the theater. If it were a movie, I’d hear it by now. That leaves rooms.
I lean a hip against the island and rub a hand over my face. Today feels like three days stacked on top of each other. Ryan and I went page by page through the custody binders—attendance logs, school reports, witness statements, incident summaries. We flagged what the judge will care about and what Vanessa’s attorney will throw against the wall hoping somethingsticks. It’s all there in black and white: stability, education, medical, Bri’s stated preferences. We’re close. Two more letters from her counselor and the activity coordinator at her after-school program, and the file is as clean as it gets. We’ll be ready.
I should feel lighter with the plan set. Instead, I feel scraped out.
I open the fridge for no reason, stare at a row of meal-prep containers, shut it again. I don’t realize how long I’ve been standing there until the dishwasher changes cycles and I flinch like an idiot.
I think about the look on Mya’s face in my office and guilt slides under my ribs in a dull ache. I don’t like how I treated her today. It goes against every instinct I have around her. But I can’t pretend I didn’t hear her words this morning. She’s said it a dozen ways since the day we signed papers: she expects nothing from this. No promises, no future, no mess beyond the one we were already in.
And why the hell would I keep pouring into a place that doesn’t want more from me than a clean exit?
Because I want to, that’s why.
Because being with Mya feels like a wire pulled tight in my chest.
Because I’m proud of her.
Because I care, no matter how I pretend.
I push off the counter and walk toward the stairs. I owe Mya better than the cold shoulder I put on today, but “better” keeps trying to turn into “more,” and she drew a clear line. I’m not going to push her past it. Though I shouldn’t punish her for it either.
I can’t rewrite the rules alone, so I’ll honor the deal. And I’ll try to be the version of myself I’m not ashamed to look at in the mirror when it’s over.
My phone buzzes. It’s Ryan confirming that those last two letters are in motion for morning. I text back a thumbs up and a thank you, which feels inadequate for a man who’s spent countless hours lining my life up so I can keep the most important part of it intact.
I stop and press a palm to the bannister. It’s a stupid, steadying habit—touching something solid to remind myself I’m solid too.
From the landing, I can hear voices. I’m halfway to knocking on the door to my daughter’s bedroom when something stops me.
Bri’s voice is small. “Dad hates Mom.”
I freeze, palm flat on the doorframe, holding my breath.
Mya’s voice comes out steady like an anchor. “Dad is protective of you. And he lovesyoumore than he hates anything. If you decide you want a relationship with your mother, I know he’ll respect that. You don’t have to avoid her to prove you’re loyal to him. That’s not your job.”
My chest tightens as I listen to Mya comfort my daughter, reassuring her with a certainty I haven’t been able to give. I’ve spent years telling myself it was enough to be both parent and safety net, that it was the two of us against the world.