Page 116

I don’t think one is ever really ready to die.

45

YOU NEVER KNOW

JANUARY 2022 – 32 YEARS OLD

Asniffle stops me abruptly, and I backtrack to poke my head into Mabel’s room. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, purple shimmery leggings covering knees she’s pulled up into her chest to bury her red face into.

“Hey, princess.” I sit next to her on her bed. “What’s going on?”

“My purple tutu is dirty.”

My gaze slides to the laundry hamper to see that it is, in fact, topping the heaping pile. “It appears it is.”

A crocodile tear streaks her face. “It has syrup on it.”

That tracks, considering she wore it yesterday to Memaw and Pepaw’s house for pancake dinner. Pepaw makes the best pancakes, and Mabel likes to slather his crispy maple bacon in extra maple syrup. She’s my little sugar bug.

“I’ll throw it in the wash before I leave today. You can wear it tomorrow.”

“But I want to look like the stars.”

My eyes drop to her galaxy leggings and the shimmery silver sequined long sleeve shirt she wears. I’ve never met another living being that dresses like Mabel.

“Well, I think your dark blue tutu looks more like the night sky.”

She sniffles back boogers. “You do?”

I nod. “I do.”

Her frown slowly morphs into a smile. “Okay.”

Before she can slide off the bed to fetch said tutu, I catch her. “Can I have a hug, kiddo?”

“Yes!” She throws her arms around me, and I hold my baby girl to my chest. I take my time, enjoying the hug. I’ve been unusually tired lately. So tired that I’ve stopped working. So tired that I come home after dropping off Owen when Faye thinks I’m working—and sleep. Mom and Dad help me keep the struggle to myself, but Dad told me he was done. That I have to tell Faye.

I tighten my hold on my daughter, my heart beating into her chest with all the love I have inside of me. It’s a lot of love. Enough to make me feel like I might burst open at the seams.

Her little hand begins to move over my back. She’s only four, but I swear she knows something is wrong. Something is off.

She knows instinctively, my intuitive, sweet little princess. My Miss. Mabel. My heart…

“I love you, Daddy,” she tells me in her small, sweet voice.

“God—” It’s a plea and a prayer. “I love you, Mabel. I love you so, so much.”

I’m going to cry if I don’t let her go.

I don’t want to let her go.

She wiggles in my hold, peering into my eyes when I release her. “Can I have pancakes for breakfast?”

“And risk this outfit with syrup?”

She considers, frowns and sighs. “Can I have blueberry cereal?”

She got that from her gran. My mother loves nothing quite like she loves a bowl of fresh berries covered in unwhipped whipping cream and sprinkled lightly with sugar.