I can’t ask anyone.
Because the day I left, the day I shattered her heart into a thousand pieces, I also shattered the bridges to her entire world.
I sink back onto the couch, elbows on my knees, burying my face in my hands.
God, I miss her.
I miss the way she’d curl against me on the couch, feet tucked under my thighs. I miss the way she’d hum while brushing her teeth. I miss her stupid inside jokes, the ones only we got. I miss the freckles on her nose and the way she used to trace the tattoos on my arms when she thought I was asleep.
I miss her.
Not the idea of her.
Her.
My phone buzzes on the table, yanking me out of my spiral. I glance at it.
It’s Sierra.
Don’t forget Karla’s ballet recital next Saturday.
I let out a shaky breath, type back a half-hearted Okay, and toss the phone aside.
I love my daughter.
God, I love her so much it terrifies me.
The moment she was born, screaming and red-faced, I felt it — this surge of something pure, something anchoring, somethingthat bound me to her in a way I couldn’t explain. She’s the only light I have left.
But Sierra?
That night… that night was a mistake. A drunken, grief-soaked, aching mistake.
I came home, three bottles deep, saw her sitting on the couch, her silhouette soft and familiar in the dark — and for one stupid, reckless moment, I let myself believe it was Brittany.
When I woke up the next morning, Sierra asleep in my arms, reality hit like a freight train.
And a few months later, Karla was on her way.
I tried.
God knows, I tried to make this marriage work.
But love doesn’t grow from ash.
And Sierra knew. From the beginning, she knew she was the second choice.
We became co-parents, co-livers, co-survivors in this life we built out of broken glass and good intentions.
But at night, when the house goes quiet, it’s Brittany’s name I whisper into the dark.
It’s Brittany’s face I see in my dreams.
I rub a hand over my jaw, exhaling sharply, and push off the couch.
The kitchen is dark. The clock on the oven reads 1:14 a.m.
I pour myself another drink — just one more, I tell myself — and lean against the counter, staring out at the city lights beyond the window.
