Page 66 of How To Not Need You

“He looked hungry.” I argue.

“Sure he did.” She laughs.

Tilly notices and smiles wide before adding to my embarrassment.

“Daddy always feeds Hades some of his dinner.”

“Not helping, Bug,” I say to Tilly who just shakes her head as if I don’t understand and turns back to her bowl.

Liv smiles at me. It’s such an unguarded smile, and I decide, not for the first time, that I would happily watch this woman smile for the rest of my life, even if it means being publicly demoted by my own child and cat on a regular basis.

Tilly, between bites, narrates. “This is a good bite. This is a medium bite. This one’s too hot, I need water. This one’s perfect, Liv, you should try this noodle.”

Liv tries the exact noodle. Nods solemnly. “You’re right. That’s the best noodle.”

“I KNOW.”

The pasta disappears. The plates empty. The fossil rock gets relocated to the windowsill where the terracotta pot used to live, because Tilly insists it needs sunlight to “activate the dinosaur energy,” and neither Liv nor I have the heart to explain how fossils work or that it is NOT one.

Then Tilly stands up from her chair, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and fixes Liv with a look of absolute certainty.

“Liv’s reading the bedtime story.”

It is not a question. It is a decree which only makes me smile.

Liv blinks, obviously caught off guard by Tilly’s insistence.

“I…”

“Come on.” Tilly grabs Liv’s hand and starts pulling her towards her room. “It’s the one with the blue dragon. I’ll show you.”

Liv looks at me over her shoulder, halfway to the hallway, being towed by a five-year-old with a grip like a vice and a surprising amount of strength. I raise my hands.

“Don’t look at me. You heard her. It’s the law.”

Liv allows herself to be dragged toward the hall. I follow at a distance, close enough to hear but far enough to give them the illusion of privacy. Tilly’s voice carries down to me, bright and emphatic, explaining the plot of the blue dragon book in exhaustive detail despite the fact that Liv has heard this story already many times in the past month.

I stop in the doorway of Tilly’s room. The night light casts a soft blue glow across the walls, the same blue as the dragon on the cover of the book now open across Liv’s knees. Tilly is already burrowed under her duvet, one small hand gripping Liv’s fingers, her body turned towards Liv like she can’t help herself. Me too Tils.

Liv reads. She does funny voices too which surprises me. The dragon gets a low, rumbling tone that she pitches from the back of her throat. The little girl in the story speaks in something softer, almost wistful. She turns the pages with her free hand and her other hand lightly strokes Tilly’s hair.

Tilly’s eyelids get heavier. Her breathing slows. Her questions start coming further apart. And there are always questions. Tilly has never met a story she didn't want to interrogate.

Liv stops reading. The room is quiet except for Tilly’s soft, even breathing and the faint hum of the night light. Liv sits perfectly still. She just looks down at Tilly’s face, at the way her golden curls have fallen across the pillow, at the small fist still wrapped around her fingers, and something passes across Liv’s expression that I can’t name but recognise anyway. She loves my daughter. I feel my chest tighten again. I want her to look at me like that. Like just being around me is monumental. I know that it’s probably how I look when I stare at her.

Then Liv tucks the duvet up around Tilly’s shoulders, brushes a curl away from her forehead, and sits there for one beat longer than she needs to.

She stands before turning and finds me in the doorway.

I don’t say anything. There aren’t words for what’s sitting in my chest right now, this warm, heavy thing that feels like gratitude and fear and hope all braided together so tightly I can’t tell where one ends and the next begins. So I just look at her. Let whatever’s on my face say what my mouth hasn’t figured out how to say.

Liv holds my gaze for a long moment. Then she steps toward the door. I move back, making room for her to pass, and my hand finds the small of her back as she moves past me into the hallway.

We make our way back to the kitchen and I pour two glasses of red wine. Liv takes hers without comment, curls onto the couch, and pulls the blanket over both of us without asking if I want to share it. I do. I absolutely do.

Hades materialises from wherever he’s been hiding, probably plotting his next kitchen demolition, and jumps on the armchair across from us. He turns once, settles, and begins to purr. Loudly. The kind of purr that vibrates through the room like a distant engine.

Liv sips her wine. I sip mine. I could get used to this.