Page 95 of Wild Then Wed
Not a little girl with your eyes. Not a chubby hand reaching for you in the kitchen. Not bedtime songs or sticky kisses or someone calling you Mama with a voice still learning how to say things.
I close my eyes and hold her a little tighter.
Then, without really thinking about it, I start to hum.
It’s an old song—half nursery rhyme, half nonsense. Something my dad made up and used to sing to me when I was about Lainey’s size.
“Violets blue and violets red,
Spin around and go to bed.
Close your eyes and count to four.
Then jump up and spin some more!”
I twirl her gently, one slow circle in the kitchen, her little legs sticking straight out like she’s flying. She squeals, then dissolves into laughter, clutching my shirt in both fists.
When I stop, she claps her hands and shouts, “’Gain!”
I smile, catching my breath. “You liked that, huh?”
She nods, curls bouncing.
I shift her weight to my other hip and say softly, “Your Grandpa Lane used to sing that to me when I was your age. Just like this.”
Lainey giggles again, like she doesn’t fully understand but doesn’t need to.
“We used to dance around the kitchen,” I tell her, my voice going a little quieter. “Just me and him. We had so much fun.”
And we did.
I look down at her—eyes bright, cheeks flushed from spinning—and I wish, more than anything, he could see this. Her. Me. All of it.
For a moment, it feels like he’s here. Like maybe if I spin her again, he’ll be waiting on the other side, holding out his arms for one more dance.
But I don’t spin her again. Not yet. I just rock her. And remember. And let it hurt in the way that means it mattered.
After a minute, I hear footsteps behind me—soft and familiar—and then my mom’s voice, warm and matter-of-fact, the way it’s always been.
“Dinner’s ready,” she says.
I turn, and there she is in the doorway, her braid draped over one shoulder like it always is on holidays, the end tied with a little green ribbon.
I nod but don’t move. Lainey’s gone quiet in my arms, her head nestled against my shoulder, her breath warm through my shirt.
Mom tilts her head. “What’s wrong?”
I almost laugh. She always knows. Doesn’t matter if I’ve said a word. She just knows, the same way a storm knows when to break.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say quietly. “I just miss Dad.”
She steps closer, her expression shifting in that way it does when she hears his name. Like she’s flinching and smiling at the same time.
“I miss him too,” she says, voice soft. “All the time.”
I believe her. I always have.
They were the sort of love story people write books about—big and quiet and rooted in something deeper than chemistry. They fit in a way that made the rest of the world feel less overwhelming. Like they knew where they belonged and didn’t have to question it.
