know, she’s flung herself on me from behind, arms around my neck, and nearly strangling me in a hug.
“Luce,” I gasp, and she loosens her hold.
“Thank you so much, Mommy,” she exclaims, and my heart warms. She rarely calls me mommy anymore, but it’s the sweetest word ever.
“Thank your dad, too,” I say softly, a twinge hitting me dead center. Whenever that may be—perhaps on her next custodial visit with him?
“I will,” she replies exuberantly, releasing her hold on me. She leans over the bowl, snags a piece of broccoli, and asks, “Why did Dad have to go to the arena anyway? They don’t have a game until Wednesday.”
Lucy moves to the adjacent counter, leaning a hip against it. I keep my head bowed over the vegetables, still having managed to keep my face averted from her. I try to sound lighthearted. “Oh, well… Dax Monahan is injured, and your dad is going to move up to the first line. So he had to do some drills with the other guys. Now, how about you go upstairs and get washed up for dinner?”
Lucy ignores my request, which is fine because dinner is more than an hour away. Still, she now gets overexcited once again, moving in closer to me. “Dad’s moving to the first line? Oh my God… that’s freaking amazing. I mean, I love Dax and he’s a great player, but Dad is just as good. He deserves the shot, and I bet he’ll be so good they ask him to stay on the first line.”
I listen with half an ear as Lucy rambles on and on about the greatness of her father, and every word is true. He’s a phenomenal player, an incredible leader, and deserves any shot upward he can get.
“Mom?” Lucy asks, and her voice seems far away. “Mom.”
I startle, returning to cutting carrots. “Yeah… what’s up, baby?”
“Look at me,” she demands, and my shoulders tense.
“What?” I ask, trying to sound annoyed. “I’m busy cutting.”
“Look at me,” she says again, this time exasperation in her voice.
I refuse to turn her way, feeling my eyes mist again. Damn it.
And then Lucy’s at my side, peering around. My gaze meets hers, and she reels back in alarm. “You’re crying. Why are you crying?”
“I’m not,” I assure her with a laugh, but it comes out all watery sounding as my eyes fill up again. “Damn it.”
Lucy automatically reaches for a paper towel, tearing it free to hand me. She takes the knife from my hand and sets it in the sink, then puts her hands on my shoulders to force me to turn and face her.
It’s at this moment I realize my little girl isn’t so little anymore.
“Mom.” Her voice is ever so gentle, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to let it affect me. “Please… what’s wrong?”
“Noth—” I start to say.
“Mom,” Lucy barks, and my mouth snaps shut. “Tell me what’s wrong. And if you don’t, I’m calling Dad. You’re starting to freak me out.”
“No,” I blurt out, shaking my head. “Don’t call your dad.”
“But—”
“Your dad is the reason I’m crying,” I admit so she doesn’t run off to get him involved.
Lucy narrows her eyes, and I see a flash of ire in them. “What has he done?”
My eyes fill with tears, and I shake my head. “Nothing. He didn’t do anything.”
“Then why are you crying?” she asks in frustration. “Because you aren’t a crier. I hardly ever see you cry. Not even when you and dad separated.”
She’d be wrong about that. I bawled my eyes out for several nights, but always in my room in private after Lucy had gone to sleep—deep into my pillow so no sounds carried.
I use the paper towel to dab at my eyes before gesturing toward the living room. “Come on, let’s sit down.”
Lucy pivots, scoops up Brody, who has been curiously watching our conversation, and heads toward the couch. We sit close to each other, and she puts Brody in the center. We both put our hands to his fur, idly stroking him. He has no training yet on how to bring calm and peace to someone who needs it, but clearly, he’s providing that to us now.
“Your dad came over to tell me about having to cancel our trip to the Ritz tonight, and well… I um… acted like a crazy woman.”
Lucy’s mouth drops open. “No way. You’re like the calmest, most rational person I know.”
“I know,” I lament, furious with myself for getting so