Page 3 of Rockstar Daddy's Second Chance

But the thought lingers like a small, stubborn spark in the back of my mind—a reminder of what could have been.

I close my eyes, letting the memory of Kendrick linger just a little longer. The one that I let get away.

The life that could’ve been mine if I hadn’t chased a dream that swallowed me whole.

Two

Kacey

The hum of the radio blends with the soft morning light streaming through my kitchen window. It’s barely dawn as I sip my dark coffee, savoring the last quiet moments before my daughter wakes. I pull my long hair into a messy bun, glancing at myself in the reflection from the window. I’ve gotten used to the familiar dark brown color I’ve worn for over a decade.

I hear a yawn and soft footsteps patter across the hardwood floor. Cassidy, my eleven-year-old, shuffles into the kitchen. Her light blonde hair pulled into a high ponytail. She gives me a sleepy smile, then stifles a yawn as she heads straight to the fridge to pour herself a large glass of orange juice.

“Mom, can we put on some music?” Her voice is muffled by another yawn.

“Sure,” I say. “Do you want a hot breakfast or cereal?”

“Cereal,” Cassidy says, making a beeline for the radio and flipping it on. Soon, the entire kitchen fills with music, the melody winding through the morning air.

“Mom, I want to get to school early this morning. The music teacher promised to listen to my arrangement before classes,” she explains with a shrug.

I watch my daughter as she eats, her head automatically bobbing to the tune on the radio, her fingers drumming along on the table. The music lights her up, animating her sleepy eyes as she hums along.

As I watch her, a familiar ache rises in my chest. The spark in her eyes, the tilt of her head as she gets lost in the melody—she reminds me ofhim. Every day, she grows more like him, and it takes all my strength to hide how her growing passion for music affects me. It splits my heart wide open.

When Cassidy stands to put her bowl in the sink, a new song begins, its guitar chords humming through the air.

“Mom, listen!” Her face lights up, her clear gray eyes sparkling, and there’s no mistaking it—she’s in awe. I watch as she closes her eyes and sways to the music–losing herself in the song. Her admiration for the singer seems to have grown over the past year, despite my misgivings.

“You really like that one, don’t you?” I say, my tone light, as I place the cereal box back on the shelf, working to keep my voice even.

“I love Cass Wild! His lyrics just mean something, you know? It’s like I can feel what he’s saying.”

Cassidy tilts her head. “Mom, why don’t you like him? His songs are really good.”

Freezing at her words, I force a laugh. “I never said I don’t like him or his songs.” I shrug and deliberately look away, the corners of my mouth pulling into a tight smile. She has no idea, no idea at all. Then I lightly hum the tune just to show I’m not lying.

Cassidy faces me, eyes bright with youthful conviction. “You should sing more often, Mom. You’ve got such a good voice.”

“Thanks,” I tease, managing a playful shrug. “But I do sing. I sing all the time, here, in the shower, and sometimes at work.”

Cassidy laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “Come on, Mom. You never sing in front of other people. And you’re good! They’d love your voice.”

I laugh along with her, playing it off—Cassidy, with her adoration and absolute conviction that her mother could be more—do anything. But her words hit harder than she could know. She has no doubts. There’s nothing holding her back. Oh,to be so young again, to think that dreams can come true if you just wish hard enough.

She turns back to the radio, turning it up and grinning. “Mom, listen to this part! It’s the best.” Cassidy’s voice rises and falls with the tune, each note filling the room, and I can’t help but smile, letting the moment linger between us.

“You really love his music, don’t you?” I say, feigning casual interest as she practically vibrates with excitement.

“Yes! He’s so real, Mom. His songs—they’re not like anyone else’s.” Her words tumble out in a rush, her cheeks flushed with eagerness.

She’s right; the songs aren’t like anything else out there. Cass Wild has that magic about him and always has. That spark that makes people listen. I just wish she weren’t so taken with him.

The song ends, and Cassidy’s excitement lingers as she goes through her morning routine with a spring in her step. Her enthusiasm bordering on devotion—it all reminds me of how I used to feel about music once. I swallow down memories that flash, unbidden, of lights, sound, and the electric hum of a crowd.

“You really should give his music a chance.” Cassidy sighs but doesn’t push.

I watch her gather her things. She grabs her guitar case from by the door, hoisting it over her shoulder with practiced ease. LastChristmas, her only wish was a guitar. It took me months of saving up, but it was worth it. Now, it’s a permanent fixture in our lives—her prized possession.

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