Page 9 of That Rush

“Yes.”

“What if you don’t like every day?”

A current of apologies she is too young to understand rises in my chest. I spent years being the father who came for visits and then left again. I thought saying I loved her was enough to cover the empty spaces between us.

She doesn’t know if I can handle every day. I’ve never given her enough of them to prove it.

“Some days will be hard,” I tell her. “You might get mad at me. I might tell you to brush your teeth when you don’t want to or pour too much syrup on your pancakes.”

“You do pour too much.”

“I’ve been informed.”

Her mouth twitches, but the worry stays in her eyes.

“We’ll have bad days,” I continue. “I’ll still want every day with you.”

She studies me with the same serious expression she had in bed this morning. “You want me?”

“More than anything.”

“Even when I’m bad?”

“You aren’t bad. Sometimes you make bad choices. So do I.”

“Did Mommy make bad choices?”

The question could become a trap if I let my guilt answer it.

“Everybody does,” I say. “Your mom made mistakes. So did I. We both loved you every single day.”

“Even when you didn’t live with us?”

“Especially then.”

She steps closer, and I gather her into my arms. Her knees settle on either side of my hips as I stand. She wraps herself around me with a complete trust I haven’t earned.

“I didn’t know daddies cried,” she murmurs against my shoulder.

“We do.”

“Grandpa doesn’t.”

“I promise he does.”

“When?”

“I’m not giving away his secrets.”

She leans back to look at me. “Will you cry again?”

“Probably.”

Her forehead wrinkles. “What do I do?”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

“But I can hug you.”