Page 117 of October
That year—God, that year. The one when everything cracked. When Mom went quiet and threw dad out. When I learned to tell time by the sound of their silences. I didn't understand everything. Still don't. I just knew something was broken. Something big.
But they didn't let it stay broken.
They went to therapy. Started showing up, for each other and for us. Theyfoughtfor us. And slowly, almost painfully, things changed. I saw it happen. Not in grand gestures, but in the small, stubborn ways they chose love every day. I watched my dad become... more. More present. More patient. More annoying, honestly but in a good way. Especially with us.
The shelter he started became his second home. Then it became shelters, plural. As if saving animals might save something in him, too. He took in strays like he was making up for every childhood pet he was never allowed to have. Dogs with three legs. Cats with anxiety. A goat named Meryl Sheep, and, of course, Hugo—the parrot who screams Taylor Swift lyrics whenever he's startled. ("I'm the problem, it's me!" has never been so unsettling at 2 a.m.)
He's softer now, in a way he never used to be. I don't mean weaker. I mean open. Unarmored. His gentleness isn't hesitant anymore; it's steady. Visible in the way he crouches to greet a nervous puppy or lingers too long at the window when I used to come home past curfew.
He hovers sometimes. Overcorrects. Tries to parent with an earnest intensity that makes me both love and pity him. Like when he asked Alice if she wanted to go shopping with him to "bond" and she stared at him like he'd offered to sell her on eBay.
She's a tough teenager. Smart, fierce, emotional as hell. Always has been, and Dad? He tries. God, he tries. Even when she acts like he's asking for a kidney just by wondering how school went. He lets her storm off. He doesn't shout. He sits with it, waits. Sometimes he'll knock on her door just to slide in a plate of fruit. No words. No pressure. Just a quiet "I'm here" in apple slices and orange wedges. Sometimes it works. Sometimes I'll find her in the living room, curled up next to him on the couch, pretending she's just "too tired to move," but really, she's come to lean into him again.
I'll never forget the day she told him she had a boyfriend.
We were in the kitchen. She said it so casually, like she was asking for a snack. "Oh, by the way, I'm dating Theo now." Just like that. No buildup. No warning. She was biting into an apple, completely unaware that she'd just detonated a nuclear bomb in her father's chest.
I swear I saw the blood leave his face. His whole body went still, like someone had paused him mid-breath. He blinked. Then blinked again. "No," he said finally, voice flat, like he was stating a basic scientific fact. He looked at me and said, "No. That can't be right. She still sticks glitter on the dog's tail. She can't date. She's seven."
"She's fourteen," I whispered. He didn't hear me or maybe he refused to. Alice rolled her eyes so hard they nearly launched out of her skull. "God, Dad. It's not that deep."
But to him? Itwas. It was deeper than oceans. It was watching the little girl who used to fall asleep on his chest now talk aboutboys,not cartoons or crayons or the fact that ketchup is a soup (her long-held and very passionate opinion). This wasdifferent. This was the beginning of her belonging to the world, to herself, and not just to us.
Mom had to talk him down. She pressed her hand to his chest like she was trying to restart his heart through sheer proximity. "She's okay," she said gently. "We raised her well. She's still Alice. She's just...growing." Only Mom could've reached him in that moment and even then, barely. He sat down at the kitchen table like he'd aged a decade in five minutes.
And then there's Lola. Eleven now. Still little enough to believe in magic. She leaves notes for the tooth fairy even when she doesn't lose teeth. Her bedroom is a kingdom of stuffed animals and glow-in-the-dark stars. That night, after the boyfriend bomb, dad held her tight for a long moment, like he needed something to anchor him. Then I heard him whisper, "Stay my baby a little longer, okay?"
She nodded seriously, like sheknewwhat was at stake. Like she understood she was his last little island of innocence in a house that was changing fast. She kissed his cheek, wrapped her arms around his neck, and said, "I'll be your baby forever."
That's who he is now.
A man who knows that parenting isn't about always having the right words. Sometimes it's about staying, especially when they push you away. Sometimes it's about feeding animals, and teens, and marriage with the same slow patience, and he does. Every single day.
That's what's running through my head now, standing here with this ring.
Becausethismoment? Asking for their blessing? It doesn't happen withoutthatyear. Without all of us deciding we were worth fighting for. I look at them, my mom with her tear-streaked cheeks, my dad with that lopsided smile he only wears when he's proud, and I realize I'm not scared. I'm ready.
I open the box.
The ring is simple and elegant. A smooth silver band cradling a deep green emerald that shimmers like new leaves after rain. On either side of the stone, so subtle you might miss it without looking closely, are carved cat ears—just the right touch of mischief and magic. Just like her.
It's more than a ring. It's a quiet tribute. To her laughter. To us. To the girl who once handed me a crumpled drawing of a cat wielding drumsticks, cheeks flushed, because she had a ridiculous, beautiful crush on "the boy with the cool sketchbook.""
Mom lets out a low whistle. "She's gonna love that."
Dad leans forward. "That's the first thing she ever drew for you, isn't it? That ridiculous drum-cat."
"Yeah," I say, a little breathless from all the emotion bubbling under my skin. "She's weird in the best possible way. Names her cats like they're nobility, Sir Whiskerton the Third, Duchess MeowMeow of House Fluff, and she gives them horoscopes. I swear to God, she told me once we had to cancel a date because one of them was having 'a sensitive Pisces moon day.'"
Mom laughs through her tears, shaking her head like she's both bewildered and charmed. "She sounds like someone who brings color into a room."
"She does," I say. "She makes everything lighter. Fun. She makes me laugh until my ribs hurt, and she never lets me sit in silence too long if she thinks something's wrong. She just—knows."
"She has green eyes," Mom adds softly, glancing down at the little velvet box in my hand.
I nod. "Yeah. That's why the stone. The emerald. I learned that from Dad."
Dad, standing quietly just off to the side, looks up at that, his eyebrows raised.
