Page 87 of The Dating Ban
Lucy hugs me back just as fiercely. “You’re the best baker, Ivy.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far and your daddy helped me,” I mumble into her hair, trying not to sniffle like I’ve just watched a puppy reunion video. “But I’ll take it.”
Theo says nothing, but when our eyes meet, my stomach does a flip.
He smiles, soft and crooked. “Told you. You’ve got fans.”
I nod, still holding Lucy and trying to discreetly dab myeye on my sleeve. “Yeah. Think I might just frame this.”
And honestly? I mean it.
A little later, after Theo’s left for work with a quick kiss to Lucy’s head and a lopsided smile in my direction, Lu and I settle at the kitchen table for a highly important morning activity: clay gnomes.
We’ve covered the surface in newspaper, rolled out a slab of air-dry clay, and are now wrapping it round one of the wonky Styrofoam cones like we’re dressing a tiny, lumpy wizard. I’m showing Lucy how to smooth the edges with a bit of water when she speaks—completely casual, like she’s commenting on the weather.
“Yasmin from yoga doesn’t have a daddy,” she says, pressing her little fingers into the base of her gnome. “So I told her she can share mine.”
I pause, fingers halfway through smoothing a seam, but I don’t look up just yet. “That’s very kind of you,” I say gently, keeping my tone light.
Lucy nods, still focused. “She said she didn’t know you could do that. But I said, 'It’s fine. I know what it’s like not to have a mummy.' So, it’s fair.”
I look at her then. Her expression is calm, matter-of-fact, like she’s just explained the rules of a very reasonable swap system. Her hands are covered in grey clay and glitter from the craft box. There’s a streak of it on her cheek too.
I feel something lodge itself in my chest—tight and warm and achingly soft.
“That’s a lovely thing to do,” I say, my voice quieter now. “You’ve got a big heart, you know.”
She shrugs, then leans over to inspect my gnome. “Yours has a wonky hat,” she informs me.
I grin, blinking away the sting behind my eyes. “He’s whimsical. It’s his thing.”
She giggles and goes back to working on her own. I sit there for a moment longer, looking at her little hands, the way she frowns in concentration, and I wonder how someone so small can carry so much understanding.
Then she glances up, grinning. “Can we give them beards?”
“Obviously,” I say. “No gnome is complete without adramatic beard.”
We start rolling out little sausage-shaped pieces of clay, and I’m halfway through sticking a particularly curly one onto my gnome’s chin when Lucy says, casually, “Sometimes I wish I had a mum.”
The air shifts, just slightly. Like the room’s holding its breath.
I keep my fingers busy with the clay, not wanting to make a big deal of it, not wanting her to feel examined.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I say, gently. “That makes sense. But you’ve got your dad, and he’s... well, he’s brilliant.”
She nods instantly. “He is. He always hugs me. Even when I’ve been really, really naughty.”
I smile at that. “Sounds like the best kind of dad.”
She smooths down the clay on her gnome’s face. “If I had a mum,” she says, voice softer now, “I’d want her to do stuff with me. Not just say nice things. Like... make gnomes. Or help with the glitter. Or eat cereal for dinner sometimes.”
I laugh, but it catches slightly. My heart feels too big for my chest all of a sudden. Like I might spill over if I move the wrong way.
I half expect her to look up at me, to ask something—something big and terrifying and far too lovely to be safe—but she doesn’t.
She just shrugs and starts shaping a hat for her gnome, like she’s planted a little thought in the middle of the table and that’s enough.
I breathe slowly and say, as lightly as I can manage, “Well, just so you know, as your friend—and fellow gnome enthusiast—if you ever want to talk about something and you don’t want to tell your dad straight away... I’m here.”
