Page 130 of With a Cherry On Top

“It’s mine,” Sadie snaps, clutching it tight.

I freeze, my hands still midair where the backpack used to be.

That was . . . abrupt.

She hugs the bag, her little fingers curled tight around the straps, but she doesn’t even look at me—just turns on her heel and hurries toward the couch.

Something’s in there.

She scoops up Mollie, the backpack still clutched tight against her chest. I don’t like it. Not the tension in her tiny frame, nor the way she averts her eyes. But I don’t push it—not yet. Instead, I head to the kitchen and call, “I’ll get some ice cream.”

She doesn’t answer, but I hear the familiar jingle of some cartoon theme song. Good. At least she’s doing something normal.

I get two bowls and add a scoop of chocolate ice cream, then a scoop of strawberry. Normally, she’d be right next to me, chattering about her day, sneaking a spoon when she thought I wasn’t looking. Not today.

Once I finish, I grab the bowls and head back into the living room. She’s curled into the corner of the couch, Mollie sprawled across her lap. She strokes the cat absently, but the moment I sit down beside her, she nudges Mollie away and reaches for the backpack.

Not even a second of hesitation.

I settle in, draping an arm along the back of the couch, making sure to keep my voice light. “You really needed that, huh?”

She nods, pulling it closer.

I offer her the bowl. “Here. Nothing better than ice cream andBluey.”

She takes it, fidgeting with the spoon, but doesn’t eat it.

I keep my eyes on the screen and gently ask, “What’s in the backpack?”

She stiffens beside me. Doesn’t answer.

“It’s okay, you know. Whatever it is.”

“It’s nothing.”

I hum, nodding like I believe her. “Must be pretty special for you to keep it so close.”

She tugs her lip between her teeth, a tiny crease forming over the bridge of her nose. She’s thinking about it.

“Sadie,” I say, dipping my head slightly to meet her gaze. “You don’t have to tell me. But if something’s wrong...you know you can, right?”

She hesitates, then nods.

I reach out, running a hand over her hair, smoothing down the strands. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy.” The second she lets go of the backpack, I pull her onto my lap and set our bowls on the coffee table, holding her close.

“You’re sorry?” I whisper. “Sorry for what, baby?”

“You told me n-not to take it to school, b-but I wanted everyone to see it.”

My heart squeezes at the guilt in her voice. I tilt my head, trying to meet her tear-streaked gaze. “That’s okay, love. What did you take to school?”

She hesitates, then pulls away just enough to reach for the backpack. Her fingers tremble as she unzips it, her breathingshallow. When she finally takes it out, I don’t understand what I’m looking at—not at first.

But as she unfolds it, everything in me tightens.

It’s her dress, the one I bought her for the recital. But the once shiny, pale blue fabric is now smeared with dirt. The hem is torn, a jagged rip running up one side. Faint stains—something dark, maybe paint—mar the front, and the delicate lace along the collar is frayed, barely hanging on.