Page 84 of Oathbreaker

Nineteen is old apparently.

“Yup. Even when you’re nineteen.” Grinning, I make my way out of the lot, turning onto the road that will lead us home, listening as Frankie recounts her day—circle time and coloring, working on writing the number five, practicing opening and closing her lunchbox to get her ready for kindergarten next year.

No joke, my baby isn’t a baby any longer.

And I’m going to miss that part of her.

And Colt missed all of it—the first smiles and the first steps, her first day of school and learning her first song with Royal, the first time she called me Mom or said “I love you” or helped me cook dinner. So many firsts that he missed.

That Frankie missed too.

My heart pulses, but I don’t want to be sad, so I think about the sleepless nights and breastfeeding and diaper blowouts.

I think about being in survival mode for so long that I could barely breathe.

“Is Colt going to live with us forever?”

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “Would you like that?” I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral.

She falls quiet.

For so long that when I stop at a signal, my eyes flick to the rearview mirror.

She has her arms crossed and is looking out the window.

But her expression isn’t angry.

She’s…pondering.

So, I let her do exactly that, driving in silence until she’s ready to talk.

She doesn’t get there until we’re turning onto our street.

“You said family always makes sure to be here for the important things.” Her arms cross tighter. “And he wasn’t.”

That has my heart pulsing again, and I weigh my words carefully.

“He wanted to be here, baby. But the bad guys who had him made it really hard for him to get home.”

“I know.”

And she does know.

Both Colt and I have had several age-appropriate conversations about his captivity, trying to lay it out in simple but not scary terms.

I’m not sure we’ve succeeded.

Especially when she says, “What if the bad guys come again?”

I pull into the driveway, turn off the car, and meet her at her booster seat, wanting her to be able to see my face when I answer her. “The bad guys can’t come here,” I tell her. “They’re not allowed.”

She studies me closely, as though considering my answer. “Like when Josie and I say ‘No Boys Allowed’ at the train table?”

Laughter bubbles up in my throat, but I swallow it back.

She’s asking a serious question and needs a serious answer.

“Like that, honey,” I say. “Except they’re so not allowed that they wouldn’t even have permission to come in the front door in the first place.”