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I looked around, taking it all in, and then glanced at Robert. The tenderness in his expression as he stared down the stage with quiet intensity, already half-smiling, was something I hadn’t seen before tonight, and it tugged at something deep inside me.
“She’s nervous,” he said suddenly, breaking the silence.
“Corinne?”
“Yeah.” He kept his eyes on the stage as he spoke. “She hasn’t danced in a long time. She did ballet when she was younger, five to eight, but she stopped. So, she’s nervous about tonight.”
“That’s normal,” I replied softly. “She’ll do great. It matters that you’re here for her.”
He glanced at me then, a gentle smile on his mouth, and reached out to trace my face with his finger. My heart stuttered, and I looked away, tucking my hands into the folds of my coat. Beingnear Robert was beginning to feel like standing too close to an open flame—dangerous, intoxicating, and impossible to pull away from.
The lights dimmed, and the quiet hum of the crowd hushed to a soft murmur as music swelled and children filed out, all looking adorable in their costumes.
Robert leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against mine. “There she is!” he whispered, his excitement contagious.
I followed his gaze, squinting to pick out the small group of girls shuffling into position onstage.
Even in the dim light, I recognized Corinne—her shock of red curls pulled back into a neat bun, her little frame poised as she took her spot.
Something about seeing her there, her chin high and her arms tucked gracefully at her sides, made my chest ache. I wasn’t even her mother, but I felt proud.
Robert’s focus snapped to the stage as Corinne started to dance, like he was seeing the most important thing in the world. The softness in his expression grew as he watched Corinne move, her feet light as she twirled and leapt across the stage. I couldn’t help but watch him, as much as I tried not to.
He was smiling—a real, genuine smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes. He wasn’t the brooding jerk of a man I’d known just afew months ago or the protective giant who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
In this moment, he was just a father, one who adored his daughter so much that it lit him up from within.
“She’s incredible,” I whispered.
Robert seemed to have a soft smile plastered onto his face as he nodded. “Yeah. She is.”
At some point, my knee bumped his under the narrow row of chairs. I murmured a quick apology, but Robert didn’t move away. Instead, his boot nudged mine lightly, teasingly.
I shot him a look, one eyebrow raised. “Really?” I whispered, barely able to hold back my smile.
He shrugged, that faint smirk tugging at his lips. “What? I didn’t do anything.”
He nudged me again, and I retaliated, pressing the side of my knee into his. For a moment, I forgot where we were. I forgot everything except the warmth of his touch against mine, the quiet laughter in his eyes, and the way I felt like a giddy teenager. The kind of silly, innocent joy I hadn’t felt in years.
“Shhh,” someone behind us hissed, and we gave each other a mischievous look before I tucked my head into his shoulder and giggled. He stroked my hair while I did, laughing softly against my hair.
But when Corinne stepped forward for her solo—delicate and graceful as she glided across the stage—we both stilled.
I could feel Robert’s tension beside me, his shoulders rigid, his hands curled into fists against his knees. He wasn’t breathing, not really, and I could tell he was holding back tears as he watched her.
The moment her solo ended, the crowd erupted into applause. Robert exhaled, his pride radiating off him like a beacon, and he clapped along with everyone else. “She killed it,” he said, his voice gruff with emotion.
“She really did,” I said, my heart swelling.
Something in me shifted as I looked back at Corinne, standing center stage with her head held high. I imagined her ten years from now, older, confident, full of dreams. I imagined my own baby, still just a tiny thought inside me, growing into someone just as brave, just as beautiful.
I could see myself in Corinne’s life. I could see myself as a mother, someone who showed up to recitals and clapped so hard my hands ached. Someone who made my child feel loved, cherished, supported. Someone who was present.
Maybe I could give this baby something different than what I had growing up. Maybe I could give them more.
The lights came back up as the recital wrapped, and we stood with the rest of the crowd, shuffling toward the exit.
“Thank you for coming,” Robert said quietly, his voice low in the bustle of the crowd. “It meant a lot to have you here.”