When the story ends, she curls up in bed with her favorite stuffed bunny, the one that's been through every move and every scrape. The one I once almost threw away because it smelled like a sock drawer, but she sobbed until I promised to wash it instead. The fabric is thin now, ears drooping, but it's still her favorite thing in the world.
I sit on the edge of the bed and brush her hair, slow and gentle. She leans into me without a word, the comfort of the moment sinking into both of us.
"Tell me something about Daddy," she whispers.
The brush stills in my hand and catches on a small knot. Carefully, I ease it gently through the tangle. My mind slips backward, years disappearing like mist. I see myself younger, thinner, and more tired. Emma was only weeks old, wrapped in a too-big blanket, her cries piercing and raw in the middle of the night.
I remember the smell of formula and the hum of the heater trying to warm a too-cold apartment. Singing lullabies off-key because the silence was worse. When the doctor said postpartum depression, I cried because I didn't have time to be anything but strong. Then, when he left, I thought I'd break. But I didn't. I couldn't. Not with her tiny fists wrapped around my finger like I was her whole world.
I think of how I paced the tiny apartment with her in my arms, bouncing and whispering songs I half-remembered from my own childhood. How sharp the silence was after he left. Howempty everything felt. He said he couldn't do it. Said he wasn't ready to be a father. And just like that, it was Emma and me against the world.
There were nights I sat on the kitchen floor with her asleep beside me, wondering how I was going to keep the lights on. Wondering if I was doing any of it right. But every morning, she'd wake up with that same wide-eyed trust, believing I could give her everything. And so, I kept trying. Every job, every move, every sacrifice—it's always been for her.
I knew this would come. It always does, now and then, like a wave that builds when the house is quiet and her mind starts to wander.
"He had a crooked smile," I say, finding the words carefully. "Like he was always about to laugh. Even when he was mad. Especially when he was mad."
She turns her face toward me. "Was he funny?"
"Sometimes," I say. "He told really bad jokes. The kind you groan at. But they made you laugh anyway."
She thinks about that, then nods. "Do you miss him?"
"Every day," I whisper.
I don't say the rest. How he walked out when she was just a baby. That he didn't know how to be a dad, not really. Some nights, I still wonder if I made the wrong choices, even though I know I didn't. He wasn't ready for the life we had. And I couldn't keep dragging Emma through the fallout of someone else's chaos.
She yawns, and I set the brush down, pulling the blanket up around her.
"I think he'd be proud of you," I say softly. "He'd love the way you laugh. And how brave you are."
I hope I'm not lying to my daughter, but every time I talk about her dad, I feel like I am. I can't bring myself to tell her he didn't want her, and didn't want a family, so I only tell her the nice things. One day she will figure it out, and it will break my heart.
She closes her eyes with a little smile. "You're the brave one, Mommy."
I sit there a moment longer, watching her. The soft rise and fall of her chest. The way her fingers curl around the bunny's paw. My heart aches in that slow, quiet way it does when you're grateful and grieving all at once.
Before I slip out of the room, I wait until her breathing evens out. Then, I close the door behind me with a quiet click. The apartment is silent, warm, small, and still somehow full of ghosts. I sink onto the couch and pull a blanket over my lap, staring at the glow of my phone on the coffee table.
There's a message from Bear.
No. From Asher.
But I don't want to think about that part yet. Not all the way.
My fingers hover over the screen. I think about how tense he looked today. How his voice cracked just slightly when he said this could've been something. My heart twisting in a way it shouldn't have.
He's Asher. The one who argued with me in the office. Who has been pushing back against the project since the day I arrived. But he's also Bear. The one who made me laugh late at night and who asked about my day when no one else did. How can he be both? And why does that make me want him more?
I keep replaying the moment his hand brushed mine. The heat that zinged through me when our eyes met. I shouldn't feel this way. Not about him. Not when he's standing between me and the job I've built my life around. And yet... there's something undeniable. Something honest in the way he looked at me, it was as if he saw everything I was hiding and didn't turn away.
I should be furious with him. I should block the number and erase the texts. Move on as if this never happened. But I don't. I can't.
I check his message
Bear:You still up?
Me:Yeah unfortunately.