Page 28 of Love on the Edge
"Of course, sweetheart," I say, taking the brush from her. "What do you want?"
"Braids, please!" she exclaims.
"You got it," I say, patting the spot in front of me so she can sit.
I start to braid her hair, fingers working through the familiar motions. I love doing this.Always have.But lately, it feels different. She’s growing up too fast, her hair longer, her patience shorter.
She used to sit still for this, small and content in my lap, insisting I make her look like a princess. Now, she barely sits still at all, already halfway out the door before I can remind her to grab a jacket.
I twist another section of hair, securing it carefully, and something in my chest tightens.
She tilts her head slightly, checking her reflection in the nearby mirror. "Looks good," she says with a satisfied nod.
Margo should be here for this.The thought hits me like a truck. She should be the one sitting behind CC, combing through the knots, braiding her hair, telling her how beautiful she looks.But she isn’t. And she never will be, not in the way CC needs.
CC deserves a mother.A real one. Someone who shows up, someone who stays, someone who puts her first. But Margo doesn’t deserve a daughter like CC.
And the worst part is,CC knows it too.She never asks about her anymore. Never wonders when she’s coming home. Never looks for her in the stands.
She just keeps moving forward.
I tie off the braid and smooth my hand over the top of her head.
She leans into my touch for half a second before springing up, already onto the next thing, already racing toward the door.
I push myself up, shaking off the weight in my chest. "Alright, squirt. Let’s hit the road."
Family dinners have been a thing for as long as I can remember. Every Saturday night, no exceptions.
And somehow, it’s still the same excitement from CC.
She’s bouncing in her seat as I pull up to my parents’ driveway. The smell of woodsmoke and roasting chicken drifts through the cool evening air, curling from the open windows, a welcome aroma that promises a warm evening.
The house comes into view, a large farmhouse standing against the backdrop of open land and towering trees. The soft cream exterior, accented by navy blue shutters, looks exactly as it always has—sturdy, familiar, the kind of place that never changes no matter how much life does. The paint is beginning to wear in some places, but that only adds to its character.
The wraparound porch stretches wide, its weathered wooden railings lined with potted flowers that Mom fusses over, her way of making sure the house feels as welcoming as ever. Rocking chairs sit in their usual spots, ready for conversation, for slow evenings spent watching the land roll out around us.
Beyond the house, the yard extends into a well-tended vegetable garden and the small chicken coop my dad still insists is more useful than it probably is. A gravel driveway leads past the house to the detached garage and workshop, where he spends half his time tinkering, fixing things that don’t need fixing, just for the sake of keeping his hands busy.
My dad, bless his old heart, parks in the usual spot, close enough to the porch that she doesn’t have to struggle withthe car door. Mom always complains, but I bet she secretly appreciates the convenience.
Besides Ryan and Drew’s vehicles, there aren’t any other cars. Ryan Porter and Drew Miller have been my best friends since childhood. They’re family at this point and at every family dinner laughing, arguing, and enjoying every bit of it.
We step out of the truck and CC races for the porch.
“Grandpa! Grandma!” she calls, already halfway across the yard.
I watch her, a soft smile tugging at my lips.
“Slow down, squirt,” I shout after her.
Her laughter echoes off the trees nearby.
I stop at the top step, breathing in the cool evening air, feeling the warmth radiating from CC’s vibrant energy. She’s all sunshine in this moment.
Maybe, just maybe, tonight could be a night like the good ones.
I follow CC inside and look around for everyone. She darts past me, already making her way toward the kitchen, her sights set on whatever snack she can sneak before dinner. I take my time, letting the familiarity settle over me.
