Page 88 of From Maybe to Baby

"Honey, she’s working," I manage to say, but even to me, it sounds hollow. Lame. Pathetic.

It’s a fat, fucking lie, too. If Alexa wanted to be here, she would be.

"Working?” Confusion washes over her face, and suddenly, it’s not just about Alexa. It’s about protecting my kids as best I can, until they’re ready to face the world on their own. Life is full of shit sandwiches, but it’s not supposed to be like that when you’re three and four years old.

I have failed on so many counts.

Bert tries to offer comfort by showing her the quarter-behind-the-ear magic trick, but Jace resists, her small body rigid with the beginning of a sob. "I want Lexa," she whimpers, the sound twisting in an already ragged wound.

Gloria and Bert exchange looks, the weight of the moment settling around us like a shroud. "I’ll talk to her," I tell them, my voice rough. "I need answers just like you all do."

After a depressing dinner, they leave me to gather the shards of a rapidly fracturing situation. No amount of talking will fix this. Paris is calling Alexa, loud and clear, and I know her well enough to realize what this means to her.

And no matter what I say or do, I might be standing here soon, watching another piece of my kids’ world—and mine—leave us.

I recognize the signs because,basically, I’m not an idiot. The way Alexa skips bedtime stories these days. The "work emergencies" that keep her late. The careful distance she's putting between herself and tiny hearts that don't understand why their Lexa isn't there. It's like watching a slow-motion replay of a game you know you're going to lose.

"Dad?" Lukas's voice is small as I tuck him in. His hockey chart on the wall is unsigned for the third day in a row. The special stickers Alexa got him are still waiting in their spot on his desk. "Is Lexa mad at us?"

"No, buddy. She's just..." Working. Running. Protecting herself from loving us too much. "Busy."

"Too busy for stories?”

My heart cracks a little more. For a short while, we had a routine—Alexa would make up stories about hockey-playing princesses who saved the day with perfect slap shots and magic puck handling. Now the stories sit unfinished, like everything else.

"You know how sometimes, during the season, Frenchie and Gamma come over more? Because I’m working so much? This is kind of like that. Sometimes at work you go through super busy times."

"She’s coming back then?” he asks, brightening.

Shit. I backed myself into that corner.

He sees the distress on my face. "Or is she leaving?" His lower lip trembles. "Like Mommy?"

Jesus Christ.

"No, buddy. That's... that's different."

"Mommy didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay. With us. But she got sick."

Sometimes I forget how much he understands. How much they both understand. How carefully they watch everything going on around them. It’s scary.

Down the hall, I can hear Jace talking to her unicorn. "Lexa's busy. She loves us. Right, Minty?"

I find myself doing what I did after Genny—protecting them. Building walls around tiny hearts learning way too young that life can fucking suck.

She's just working. How many times can I say that? I mean, the kids are little but they’re not stupid. I guess it’s better than something likeshe likes us but maybe not enough to stay.

My phone buzzes again with the world's opinions on my publicly crumbling happiness:

Vince:

TMZ reporting trouble in paradise. Comment?

Delete.

Team owner:

City loves the family man image. Fix this.

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