Page 79 of Her Hat Trick Daddies
I wanted to scream at him. At Dad. At all the years I carried more than my share. But all I could think about was Mom. How she would’ve known what to say. None of this would've happened if a drunk driver hadn’t shattered our world in a single, senseless second.
They were just coming home from dinner when he blew through a red light, slamming straight into the passenger side. Dad survived. Mom didn’t. And now he has to live with the image of her face in those final moments burned into his memory. I think about that night more than I should, and every time, it breaks me all over again.
I miss her so much, even after all these years.
And Dad… his face didn’t warp with rage the way Wyatt’s did, but the look in his eyes still guts me. Disappointment, quiet and heavy. That hurts in a whole different way.
I take Luna from my Dad, her body warm and limp against my shoulder, finally asleep. I can still hear the echo of raised voices in my ears—Wyatt barking like a German shepherd, the sound of Shane’s knuckles hitting Wyatt in his jaw, Andy demanding apologies, and David trying to keep everyone from going nuclear.
I press my cheek to Luna’s curls and breathe her in. Cocoa butter, shampoo, and baby sweat. Familiar. Grounding. I lay her down in her crib, the soft glow of the nightlight painting the walls in gentle stars. She murmurs something against myneck—maybe “boo-bear,” maybe nothing at all, and I hush her with a kiss to the crown of her head.
“It’s okay, baby. You’re safe. Mommy’s here.”
She rolls onto her side, her favorite stuffed pig, the one from Shane, tucked beneath her arm, and lets out a soft sigh. A few minutes pass. I watch her chest rise and fall. Only when I’m sure she’s sound asleep do I leave the room, closing the door as quietly as I can.
I find Dad in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with two mugs of tea. He doesn’t say anything, just hands me one. Chamomile. Of course.
I take a long sip and then sit at the table, suddenly so tired I could fall apart.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks gently.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Not really. But I know I need to.”
He waits. He always does that. It’s one of the things I love most about him. He doesn’t push.
“I care about them,” I finally say. “All three of them. I didn’t expect it to happen like this. I didn’t plan any of it. But I look at Luna and… I see pieces of Shane in her. And I see how much all of them want to be there for her, and for me. I didn’t think I’d ever get something like this. It’s messy and unconventional and probably insane, but I feel… seen. And loved. And that matters to me.”
Dad nods slowly, like he’s weighing every word. Then he says, “You always did like taking the road no one else would. Doesn’t mean it’s wrong, no matter how much I might not understand it right away. Just means it’s yours. And if this makes you happy… how could I take that from you?”
He pauses, then adds, “Honestly, after all these years hearing about Ava, and seeing how she’s built a life for herself and her son, who’s to say you couldn’t do the same? It's just different when it’s your own kid, you know? Hearing someone else’s story isn’t the same as living it.”
My eyes well up.
I set the tea down and fold forward until my forehead touches the table. The sobs comes out fast and ugly. Dad doesn’t rush me. Just rests his hand on my back and rubs slow, steady circles. Like he used to when I had nightmares as a kid.
When I finally sit up, my face is soaked and my chest aches, but something in me feels lighter. Less alone.
“I needed to hear you say that,” I whisper.
“I gave you grief when you told us you were pregnant,” he says softly. “I’m not doing that again. You, Wyatt, Luna… you’re my world, and I want what’s best for my family, no matter how unconventional. Shane is Luna’s father. And if he wants to step up, and if you want to be with…them, then it’s not my place to get in the way.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I choke out.
“I love you, honey. Always.”
I manage a smile, and it almost sticks… until the front door creaks open.
Wyatt steps in, his expression stony and unreadable. His boots are muddy. He’s clearly been walking off steam.
I tense, waiting for more yelling.
He doesn’t yell.
He walks to the table, takes the other chair, and sits. For a long moment, the only sound is the ticking of the clock.
“I’m not okay with this,” he says finally.
I nod. “I figured.”
