Page 67 of The Art of Ruin

She pauses again, clearly aware that this is a logical problem she hasn’t solved yet, then reaches for a sweater that wasn’t part of the original arrangement and adds it to the case.

“That stays,” I say, stepping further into the room.

She looks at me, then at the sweater, then very deliberately places it on top of everything else.

Behind her, I hear Nico somewhere in the hallway, already entertained by a situation he has no intention of helping with.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” I tell her, moving to the bed and lifting a pair of boots out of the suitcase before setting them back where they belong.

“I’m making it better,” she counters.

“It was already perfectly sufficient.”

“But, Daddy, what if I neeeeeds it.”

There’s a pause as I consider that and know I can’t employ logic to this situation because she’s not thinking with logic.

She reaches for something else, hesitates, then adds it anyway, watching me out of the corner of her eye like she’s testing how far she can push the line.

Under normal circumstances, this would be resolved quickly. Direction given, compliance achieved, the process complete. My daughter is mostly easy to negotiate with, but occasionally I seethe stubbornness of her mother come out and it makes me grit my teeth. My wife was the most stubborn woman I ever met, well, until Isabella.

I could argue but this feels like one of those fights not worth having. Instead, I find myself adjusting—repeating instructions, removing items, allowing others that make no sense to me but make her happy.

It isn’t difficult.

It’s just… slower.

Less precise.

And for reasons I don’t immediately examine, it irritates me more than it should. “You’re taking too long,” I say.

“I’m thinking,” she replies, without looking up.

“Think faster, Jellybean, or all the snow will melt before we get there.”

Her eyes widen in alarm, and she starts shoving things into her case at a rate of knots. “Okay, I’m done.”

I exhale quietly, resisting the instinct to simply repack the entire case myself and be done with it. “That goes,” I say, lifting two items from the pile and setting them aside.

“No,” she says immediately.

“Yes.”

She narrows her eyes at me, then reaches for something else entirely, shifting the argument instead of continuing it.

From the doorway, Nico leans against the frame, watching with open amusement. “You’re losing,” he says.

“I’m not losing.”

He laughs. “Yep, you are.”

I don’t respond to that because the distinction is irrelevant. “Why are you here, anyway? Aren’t I meant to be meeting you at your place?”

“Yeah, Izz sent me over.”

I’m only half listening as he speaks, still focused on the case in front of me.

Eventually, the suitcase is closed—not because she’s finished, but because I decide it is—and she allows it with the air of someone who intends to revisit the decision later.