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I also know that love doesn’t mean much to a six-year-old when the person rarely shows up.

“Will you tell her to call me?” Aspen asks.

“I will,” I promise.

“Okay.”

“Now get some sleep.” I pull the comforter beneath her chin. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Aspen wraps both arms around Beachy.

“Night, Daddy,” she says. “Love you more than Beachy.”

I press a hand against my chest. “That’s a serious amount of love.”

She grins. “But only a little bit more.”

“I’ll take it.”

I lean down and kiss her forehead.

“Love you too, baby girl.”

Her eyes close as I switch on the night-light and walk toward the door.

This is why the rule exists.

Aspen doesn’t need another person to love and wonder why they left.

I won’t bring someone into her life unless I know they’re staying.

And I’m not risking myself on someone who might leave either.

No matter how much I can’t stop thinking about her.

* * *

The next morning, Aspen is quieter than usual.

She’s dressed and ready for school, but she keeps checking her backpack and twirling the end of her braid around one finger.

Nervous.

Before she woke up, I sent Courtney a message.

ME: Aspen starts with her new teacher today. It’s been three weeks since you called. Can you call her before school?

Her response came ten minutes later.

COURTNEY: Reception is horrible. I’m overseas. Send her hugs x

That was it.

No question about how Aspen is feeling. No promise to call when her reception improves.

Just send her hugs.

I don’t respond. Anything I say right now will come from anger, and fighting with Courtney won’t make this morning easier for Aspen.