Page 28

She absorbed that, lips trembling slightly. "I still think everything is my fault sometimes. Dad leaving. Mom getting sicker. If I'd been a better daughter, less needy, maybe . . ."

The words hung between us like broken glass. Here it was—the real wound, deeper than anything her piece-of-shit father had done by walking away. The conviction that she'd caused it all.

"Baby," I said, reaching for her hands again. "We need to talk about that."

"I know it's not logical." She was crying now, quiet tears that seemed surprised to exist. "I know seven-year-olds don't make their parents leave. But I can't stop feeling it. Like maybe if I'd been easier, less trouble, needed less . . ."

"Your dad was already one foot out the door before you were born," I said gently. "Men like that always are."

"How do you know?"

"Because I've met a hundred guys like your father. Weak men who bolt when life gets hard. You could have been the perfect child, and he still would have left. His leaving was about his failures, not yours."

She crumpled then, falling against my chest with a sob that seemed to come from somewhere deep. I gathered her up, pulling her into my lap despite the public setting. Let someone say something. Let them try.

"I've carried it so long," she whispered against my shirt. "This certainty that I ruined everything just by existing."

"I know, baby. I know." I rocked her gently, the way I'd learned calmed her. "But we're going to work on that. Going to replace those lies with truth until you believe it."

"What if I can't?"

"Then I'll believe it for both of us until you can."

She pulled back to look at me, face streaked with tears but eyes clear. "You really think I'm worth all this trouble?"

"You're not trouble," I said firmly. "You're a gift I probably don't deserve but I'm sure as hell not giving back."

That surprised a watery laugh out of her. "Even when I'm crying at picnics?"

"Especially then." I kissed her forehead, tasting salt. "Come on. Let's head home. I want to show you something."

B ack at my apartment, I moved with purpose, dragging cushions from the couch to the corner by the big window.

I'd been planning this since seeing her face when Mia showed her that special room. It wasn’t much—not the dedicated space she deserved—but something that said "yours" in a place that had always been stubbornly mine alone.

The cushions formed a nest against the walls. Soft blues and greens because purple felt too obvious, too much like copying Mia. I'd hit three different stores finding the right ones. Pathetic, maybe, but the image of Cleo curled up here had driven me past embarrassment.

Her coloring books went on the small tray I'd bought—the good pencils too, the ones that cost more than a tank of gas.

Mr. Friendly, the teddy bear she'd shyly introduced me to last week, sat propped against the biggest pillow like a guardian.

I'd even strung some of those battery-powered fairy lights across the corner.

Subtle ones that wouldn't make my place look like a college dorm.

"What's this?" Cleo stood in the doorway, voice soft with wonder.

"Your space." I stepped back, suddenly uncertain. Maybe it was too much. Maybe she'd think I was trying too hard, compensating for not having a real room to give her. "Temporary, until I can do it properly. But somewhere that's yours. Where you can be as little as you need."

She moved forward like she was approaching something holy. Dropped to her knees in the cushion nest, hands running over the soft fabric. When she picked up Mr. Friendly and clutched him to her chest, something in my chest cracked open.

"It's perfect," she whispered, eyes bright with tears. "You did this for me?"

"Course I did." I settled beside her, careful not to disturb her arrangement. "You need space to feel safe. This is just the start."

She curled into me then, Mr. Friendly still pressed between us. The fairy lights cast soft shadows, turning my stark apartment into something gentler. More like home than it had ever felt in the two years I'd lived here.

"Tell me about your dad," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "Not the story you've been telling yourself. The real one."

She went still against me. I felt her breathing change, quick and shallow like a spooked animal. But she didn't pull away.

"What do you mean?"

"You were seven when he left. Old enough to remember things, even if you didn't understand them then." I stroked her hair, slow and soothing. "What was he like before? The truth, not the guilt talking."

She was quiet so long I thought she might not answer. When she did speak, her voice was small. "He was already pulling away. I remember that now. Coming home later and later. Mom would keep dinner warm, but he'd say he already ate."

"What else?"

"The smell." She pressed closer to me. "Beer and something else. Perfume that wasn't Mom's. I asked about it once and he hit the wall next to my head. Not me, but close enough to shut me up."

My jaw clenched, but I kept my voice even. "What about with your mom?"

"They fought. Quietly, because they thought I was asleep. But I heard them." Her fingers found mine, squeezing tight. "She'd ask where he'd been. He'd tell her she was being paranoid. That her illness was making her crazy."

"Gaslighting," I said. "Classic abuser tactic."

"But he wasn't . . . he never hit her."

"Abuse isn't always physical, baby. Sometimes it's worse when it's not."

She thought about that, Mr. Friendly's fur twisted in her free hand. "The day before he left, I asked him to read to me. Just a story before bed. He said . . ." She stopped, swallowing hard.

"What did he say?"

"That I was too needy. That real girls didn't need their daddies for everything. That maybe if I grew up and stopped being such a baby, Mom wouldn't be so stressed and sick all the time."

White-hot rage flooded through me. Bad enough to abandon your kid. Worse to leave them with that kind of poison. "Look at me."

She tilted her face up, tears streaming. In the soft light, she looked exactly like what she'd been—a little girl desperate for love from someone incapable of giving it.

"What kind of grown man tells a seven-year-old she's too needy for wanting a bedtime story?"

"I—" She stopped, confusion clear on her face.

"What would you say if you heard someone talking to a kid at the shelter like that?"

Her eyes widened. "I'd be furious. I'd tell them they were being cruel."

"But somehow it's different when it's you?"

"I . . . but I was . . ." She trailed off, and I could see her trying to reconcile the story she'd told herself with the reality I was showing her.

"You were a child who needed her father. That's it. That's the whole story." I cupped her face, thumbs brushing away tears. "Your dad was a coward who couldn't handle real life. Your mom got sick, and instead of stepping up, he ran. Made you the villain so he didn't have to be."

"But Mom got worse after he left—"

"Because her partner abandoned her, not because you needed lunch money and help with homework." I kept my voice firm but gentle, guiding her toward truth. "Would she have been better off if you'd disappeared too? If she'd had no one?"

"No," Cleo admitted, so quiet I almost missed it.

"So maybe—just maybe—you weren't the problem.

Maybe you were the thing that kept her going.

" I pulled her fully into my lap, her back to my chest so she could see the space I'd made for her.

"Maybe that little girl who needed stories and hugs was exactly what your mom needed too. A reason to fight."

The sob that tore out of her shook her whole body. Years of guilt and self-blame cracking open like a dam. I held her through it, rocking slightly, whispering nonsense into her hair. Let her feel it all in the safety of my arms.

"I was just a kid," she said finally, wonder in her voice like she'd discovered something impossible.

"Just a little girl who deserved better than she got," I agreed. "Who deserved a daddy who read her stories and held her when she was scared and never, ever made her feel like too much."

"Like you do."

The simple faith in those words humbled me. "I'm trying, baby. Trying to give you what you should have had all along."

She turned in my lap, facing me fully. In the fairy lights with tears still wet on her cheeks, she looked young and old all at once. Wounded but healing. Broken but becoming whole.

"I think I need help believing it," she admitted. "That I wasn't the reason. That I deserved better."

"That's what I'm here for." I kissed her forehead, tasting salt and pain and hope. "We'll work on it together."

"Promise?"

"Promise, little one. However long it takes. I’m not going anywhere."

"You know, I think I need a bath," Cleo said, voice small and tired.

The breakdown had left her limp in my arms, worn out from carrying guilt that was never hers to begin with. I kissed the top of her head, already moving to stand.

"Come on, baby. Let's get you cleaned up."

She let me guide her to the bathroom, pliant and trusting. The overhead light was too harsh, so I lit a candle I bought earlier in the week. Vanilla and lavender—soft scents that made my bachelor bathroom feel less like a cave.

Steam rose as I adjusted the water temperature, testing it against my wrist. Had to be perfect. Not too hot, not too cold. She stood behind me, swaying slightly like she might fall over.

"Arms up," I said gently.

She obeyed without question, letting me pull her shirt over her head. No shame now, no hiding. We'd crossed that bridge the first night, but this felt different. This was pure caretaking, washing away the afternoon's emotional storm.

I undressed her with reverent hands. Jeans sliding down her legs, panties following. Each piece of clothing another layer of armor she didn't need here. When she stood naked before me, I had to swallow hard against the surge of protectiveness.