Page 77 of When Lies Unfold

Do I have to make her a homemade card to get that kind of smile? Shit. The idea’s beyond laughable.

And fuckin’ pathetic.

“Alma drew butterflies on the card.” Lola continues, oblivious to my inner thoughts, and beams with pride at my daughter. “And they looked exactly like the ones on my arm.”

Adoptin’ a hurt expression, I tease, “I didn’t get a card, Alma.”

My daughter’s expression drops. Lola tenses beside me, but Alma ducks her chin shyly before reachin’ behind her. When she holds out a folded card, similar lookin’ to the one she gave Lola, I go still.

“You made one for me?” I offer gently. Settin’ down my teacup, I accept the card from her.

She nods slowly before lowerin’ her eyes to the blanket. I’m not expectin’ a verbal response, so she shocks me when she whispers, “I didn’t think you’d like it, ’cause boys don’t like stuff like this.”

Emotion tightens my chest, and my mouth goes bone dry, ’cause my girl spoke to me—for the first time in far too long. I turn my attention to the card, inspectin’ it carefully.

On the front, she’s written, a mi papá, and drawn some guns beneath it. I’m not sure what to make of the fact that Lola got butterflies on hers and I got some guns, but I guess it fits.

When I open it and read what’s on the inside, though, every muscle in my body goes rigid. My throat feels like some asshole’s tryin’ to choke me out.

I love you more than the whole wide world because you saved me.

you probably wanted a boy instead of a girl, so I’m sorry. But can you please marry Lola so she can be my mom? I’ll do anything.

I love you, Daddy.

Love,

Alma

xoxo

My eyes lift to meet Alma’s wary gaze, and I close the card before Lola can see what it says.

Daddy. She’s never called me that before, least of all on paper. If I’m bein’ honest, I never considered it. Never thought of myself as a dad, but more of a caretaker.

But now, that single word Alma neatly wrote has my throat growin’ impossibly tight.

I clear my throat and lean toward Alma, lowerin’ my voice. “This is the best card I’ve ever received.”

Her dark eyes crease at the edges with a smile, but when my expression goes stern, they widen with worry. “But you gotta know that I never wanted a boy.” I scowl in distaste. “I’ve got too many boys runnin’ around here as it is.”

Relief fills her brown eyes, urgin’ me to continue. “And I only like tea parties when they’re with you.”

She launches herself at me, barely grantin’ me time to prepare for it. Her small limbs curl around me, and for such a little thing, she threatens to squeeze all the breath out of me.

For some unexplained reason, my eyes collide with Lola’s. The affection swimmin’ in the depths of her gaze combined with the faint smile tuggin’ at her lips makes me feel like the time I first made a name for myself. When I started bein’ known as somebody to both fear and respect.

I’ve got a big fuckin’ problem on my hands, ’cause she shouldn’t have the power to make me feel this way with a mere look.

Alma leans back, grabs the card, and points at a specific line.

But can you please marry Lola so she can be my mom?

A surprised laugh falls outta me, and Lola’s expression turns curious with a hint of somethin’ else I’m unable to decipher.

Placin’ my lips near my daughter’s ear, I whisper quietly enough not to be overheard. “Can’t make any promises, sweetheart.”

Alma’s been whisked away to complete the rest of her scheduled private tutorin’, and Lola’s about to rush off now that our tea party’s convened.

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