Page 9 of His Daughter

“Hey.” He crossed to me and pulled me into a hug, arms circling my waist. He kissed the top of my head. “I made dinner.”

“I can see that.”

“Sit down. It’s almost ready.”

I sat. He moved back to the stove, checked the pasta, and lifted the garlic bread with a dish towel folded twice. He brought everything to the table in two trips and filled my water glass before he sat down. He shook out his napkin and picked up his fork.

We ate.

The pasta was good. It was a little overcooked because Caleb always left it in too long, and I never corrected him because the effort mattered more than the texture. The garlic bread was perfect. He'd brushed it with butter and sprinkled it with fresh parsley. The wine sat open between us. He poured for both of us without asking. I drank. Neither of us spoke.

Outside, a car alarm went off and stopped. The fridge hummed. Normal sounds, all of them, filling the space where conversation used to live.

Caleb set his fork down. He was looking at his plate, but I could see him searching for the words — his shoulders squared, his thumb rubbing the stem of his wine glass back and forth.

“I’ve been looking into other agencies,” he said finally. “I made an initial call. Just to see what the process looks like, what the timeline would be.”

My fork stopped. This again. I forced another bite of pasta into my mouth and chewed slowly.

“I’m not ready.”

“I know, but — ”

“I’m not ready, Caleb. I don’t think I’ll ever be.”

He was quiet for a moment. His thumb stopped moving. “When, though? When will you be ready? I’ve been walking on eggshells for a month. Waiting. On your terms. On your timeline.” He looked up. “This is hard for me, too. But you’re acting like you’re the only one dealing with it.”

I stood. “Is that why you called my sister?”

His eyes widened. He hadn’t expected Nina to share. He looked away and sighed, then came toward me. His hands found my shoulders. “Baby, I don’t like this any more than you do, but we need to move quickly. The window for — ”

My phone rang on the counter. I reached past him and grabbed it, the movement putting distance between his hands and my body. He let me go.

He squeezed my elbow, then moved to the living room. “We’ll finish this conversation.”

I looked at the screen. Mom.

Not now. But the phone kept ringing, and standing there holding it was worse than answering, so I picked it up and wedged it between my ear and shoulder. My hands were already reaching for the plates. I needed to clean. I needed to move.

“Baby, you will not believe what Ray did this weekend.” Lorraine’s voice poured through. “He surprised me with tickets to that show I was telling you about — you remember, the one with the singer, the tall one?”

“Mmhmm.” I carried the plates to the kitchen, scraped the leftovers into a container, and ran the water.

“The waiter knew him by name, and Ray ordered this bottle of wine that was just. He said the sweetest thing to me at dinner. He said, ‘Lorraine, I’ve never met a woman who lights up a room the way you do.’ Can you believe that? I almost cried right there at the table.”

“That’s great, Mom.”

I glanced toward the living room. Caleb sat on the couch, phone pressed to his ear, voice low, back to me. I turned the faucet down and strained to hear.

“Yes, I understand the timeline. And the home study — how long does that typically — right. Right, okay.”

My stomach dropped. I gripped the counter.

“Mom, I’ll call you back.”

“Oh, okay, baby. Call me later, because I have to tell you about what Ray said about — ”

I hung up, set the phone down, and dried my hands slowly, buying time to cross the kitchen and hallway and arrive in the living room without running.