Page 111 of Imperfect Arrangement
“You know today’s a special day, right?” I whisper.
She beams up at me, signing with sleepy hands, “It’s my birthday.”
“Yes, it is.” I press a kiss to her forehead, letting the moment sink in. “And before everyone shows up to steal you away from me, I want a few moments with my bug.”
“I’d like that very much, Dad.”
Damn if it doesn’t make my chest feel too full. “Good. Now…” I pretend to inspect her face with a serious expression. “Are you ready to start getting wrinkles soon?”
Her eyes widen as she clutches her cheeks dramatically before signing, “I won’t get wrinkles! I’m still small.”
“Yes, you are, my small bug.” I brush her hair back. “Okay, tell me—do you have any big questions about getting older?”
I meant it as a joke, but the lightness of the moment shifts. Her face turns serious, her brows knitting together in a way that makes my pulse stutter.
“Quill,” I prompt gently, tipping her chin up so she’s looking at me. “You can ask me anything. You know that, right?”
She hesitates, then nods, her tiny hands fidgeting before she signs, “Do you get emotional, Dad?”
The question catches me off guard. I try to piece together where this is coming from but come up blank.
“Sometimes,” I answer truthfully. “I guess I do.”
“Do you cry?” Her eyes go wide like she’s genuinely horrified by the thought.
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Not anymore, I guess. But when I was your age, I did sometimes.” I nuzzle her nose again, trying to coax that lightness back onto her face, but she doesn’t budge. “Are you emotional, Bug?” I ask because I need to fix whatever is making her look so serious.
She shakes her head, and just as I let out a sigh of relief, she adds, “Willow was. At her house. Quiet Willow.”
“You mean Whispering Willow?”
She nods. “We went to the swing,” Quill continues. “I pressed a button, and the whole tree lit up. It was so pretty, Dad. But it made Willow cry. I don’t like her crying.”
I pull her closer and press my lips to the top of her head as my mind races. I can picture it perfectly—Willow and Quill under that tree, the swing, the lights. Until last night, I didn’t know why Willow had gotten that tattoo, but I suspected the story behind it wasn’t just sentimental. It was painful.
When I first saw that tree during one of my site visits to the wedding estate, I remembered the first slide of her presentation—A Shared Dream.It wasn’t just a catchy tagline, it was her heart. Her gramps’s legacy. I didn’t think a simple gesture like adding the swing and lights would mean so much to her.
“Did you meet her gramps?” Quill asks, pulling me back to the present.
I shake my head. “Unfortunately, I didn’t. But he must’ve been a wonderful man.”
Quill nods solemnly, her little face thoughtful. “Willow loves him a lot.”
I hum a quiet, “Yeah,” nodding gently as I look at Quill.
She’s silent for a long moment, her little hands resting on her lap before she signs, “Dad, what does it mean when we say ‘I love you’?”
I’m stunned for a beat by her big, layered question. She possibly doesn’t even realize the weight of what she’s asked. How often do we say those three words without stopping to really think about them? But did I expect anything else from my daughter? She’s never been a normal kid.
I give myself a moment to collect my thoughts before turning so I’m facing her. “When I say I love you, I mean I care about you more than anything in this world. When I say I love you, I mean I want you to be the happiest person in the world, Bug. When I say I love you, I mean I want you to trust that I’ll do whatever it takes to take care of you, to chase away any fear monsters you might have. It means I’ll never leave you. No matter how old you get—whether you’re seven or twenty-seven—your dad will always be there when you need him. It means that wherever I am, you’ll always have a home with me.”
My throat tightens as I picture the future—my little girl, grown up and stepping into a world that feels both exciting and terrifying. I don’t even realize my chest is pounding until her small hand presses against it. She smooths her palm over my shirt as if to quiet the storm within me.
I glance down, meeting her soft, earnest gaze. Quill’s lips part, her chin quivering a little, and I can tell there’s something she wants to say. I wait, letting her gather her courage, expecting her to lift her hands and sign as usual.
But instead, she surprises me. “I love you, Dad,” she says softly, her voice clear and steady.
The world stops.
