Page 2 of That Rush

I hold her because it’s the only honest comfort I can give.

Krista had been my ex-wife for almost five years. We weren’t finding our way back to marriage. Over the last year, we had finally learned how to talk without dragging every old failure into the conversation. She had started trusting me with more time with Josie, and I had started believing we could become the parents our daughter deserved.

We had time to get better at it.

Then we didn’t.

“I miss her,” Josie says against my neck.

“I miss her too.”

“You do?”

The surprise in her voice is a clean, sharp pain. I lean back enough to see her face. “Of course I do. Your mom was important to me.”

“But you didn’t live with her.”

“No, we didn’t live together anymore.” I wipe the tears from beneath her eyes with my thumb. “People can live in different places and still care about each other.”

She considers that, her forehead wrinkling. “Did Mommy know you cared?”

“I think she did.” My voice catches, and I clear it. “I hope she did.”

Josie rests her head on my chest again. I watch the pale light slipping through the curtains while she listens to my heartbeat settle.

After a few quiet minutes, she asks, “Are you sleeping here again tonight?”

“If you want me to.”

“What about tomorrow night?”

“I’ll be wherever you need me.”

She lifts her head. “Every day?”

The question hits with a familiar ache. I used to count my days with her. Weekends. Holidays. The extra nights Krista had begun giving me. Every visit ended with a bag by the door and the knowledge that Josie would return to the home where her mother waited.

“Yes,” I tell her. “Every day.”

She nods like this solves one small piece of a problem too big for her, then settles against me again.

I wrap both arms around my daughter, the full weight of the empty calendar settling in. There will be no return date this time. No one else Josie will eventually go home to.

I am her sole parent now.

Josie’s stomach growls against mine.

She lifts her head and looks offended. “That was loud.”

A laugh catches in my throat. “It was.”

“I think I need pancakes.”

Pancakes. The word is so ordinary it doesn’t compute.

“I think we can find some.”

She slides off the bed, then reaches for my hand before her feet touch the floor. I tighten my fingers around hers and follow her into the hallway.