Funny, I’ve been places and done things that most people only dream about, but none of it compares to this—being here, with them is by far the best place I’ve ever been.
The movie begins, and Ella provides running commentary despite Tiff's attempts to shush her. I don't mind. Every wordand reaction is a glimpse into my daughter’s mind. I want to catalog every preference, every little quirk, to make up for all the years I've missed.
“This is my favorite part,” Ella whispers loudly as Princess Blanca conjures a sparkling home for Mr. Nibbles from nothing. “She's making everything beautiful with her magic.”
I’m not watching the movie. I’m watching her. Ella’s beaming bright eyes watch the TV in wonder, and it’s the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen. She catches me looking and grins, all baby teeth and dimples.
“Do you like it?” she asks, her whole body leaning toward me in anticipation of my answer.
“It's amazing,” I tell her honestly. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”
She beams, satisfied, and turns back to the screen, unconsciously leaning against my arm again.
Over her head, my eyes meet Tiff’s, and her expression softens. In that moment, something passes between us. No words are spoken. There’s no need. It’s a truce. She brought me here, and let me experience this time with my child because she trusts me, and I’m not going to give her a reason to go back on it. She gives me the smallest nod before turning her attention back to the movie.
By the time Princess Blanca and Princess Isla defeat the evil snow monster, Ella's eyelids are drooping despite her valiant efforts to stay awake. The credits roll, and Tiff stands, stretching.
“Okay, bedtime for princesses,” she announces.
“Not sleepy,” Ella protests, even through a wide yawn.
“Uh-huh. Tell that to those sleepy eyes.” Tiff holds out her hand. “Come on, bath time.”
“Can Jamie help?” Ella asks, turning those big, doe eyes on me with devastating effect.
Tiff hesitates, glancing between us. “Bath time is usually just you and me, baby.”
Ella's face falls, and I quickly intervene. “That's okay. Maybe I could help with the story part later? If that's all right with your mom.”
Tiff considers this, then nods slowly. “I guess that would be okay. We'll be about twenty minutes.”
“I don't mind waiting.”
Ella perks up immediately. “You gotta do the voices,” she informs me seriously. “Mommy always does the voices but sometimes she's too sleepy and they don’t sound right.”
“I'll do my best,” I promise, my heart racing at the thought of being entrusted with even this small part of their routine.
As they head upstairs, I take the opportunity to explore the living room more closely. Photos line the built-in shelves—Ella as a newborn, cradled in Tiff's arms. Ella's first birthday, face smeared with cake. Ella on Zach's shoulders at what looks like a football game. Holidays, milestones, ordinary moments—a visual representation of everything I've missed.
My chest aches as I pick up a frame holding a photo of Ella in a ballet tutu, beaming at the camera. She can't be more than two, her hair in tiny pigtails, her eyes—Tiff’s eyes—sparkling with delight.
How many firsts have I missed? First smile, first steps, first words…. I set the photo down carefully, my throat tight with regret.
“Jamie?”
I turn to find Tiff watching me from the stairs, her expression guarded. “She's ready for her story if you still want to.”
“I do,” I say, perhaps too eagerly.
She gestures for me to follow her up the stairs to the second floor. Or at least, one side of the second floor. The house has two staircases since Zach is living it up these days. This side of thefloor is just as modern as the downstairs with three doors down it.
We stop at one decorated with a sparkly snowflake and Ella's name in purple and blue letters.
“A few ground rules,” Tiff says quietly, placing a hand on my arm to stop me before we enter. Her touch sends a spark up my spine that I desperately try to ignore. Just because Tiff is more beautiful now than I remember, doesn’t mean she wants anything to do with me besides Ella. “One story only, even if she begs for more. No scary voices that might give her nightmares, and if she asks difficult questions, which she absolutely will, just deflect them to me, okay?”
“Got it. One story, no scary voices, defer the hard stuff to you.”
She searches my face, then nods, satisfied. “Okay. Let's go.”