Page 106 of At First Flight
I feel a smile tug at my lips, even as the rage simmers beneath the surface.
My father doesn’t back down. “You’re a child playing adult, Dean. You’re running a circus, not a household. You think a few pancakes and bedtime stories make you a parent?”
“No,” I say. “But showing up every damn day does. And I’ll keep showing up long after you’re gone. And seriously, old man? What makes you think you get the Father of the Year award? All you want is someone to hand the business over to so it stays in the family. You couldn't care less about those kids.”
He steps forward. “If you think a judge is going to side with you—”
“I don’t care what a judge thinks.” I interrupt. “I care whatmykids see. I care what they feel. And they know who’sbeen there. They know who tucks them in and kisses their scraped knees and listens when they cry.”
His jaw tightens, lips thinning to a hard line. And I know I’ve finally hit the nerve I was aiming for. Good.
He spent years pretending his legacy could make up for what he never gave us. Empty words. Broken promises. A father only in name, never in presence. But I won’t let him do the same to Oliver and Evelyn.
Not now. Not ever.
There’s a beat of silence, heavy and brittle, and then he scoffs—a sharp, humorless sound that cuts through the air like a slap. Without another word, he spins on his heel and storms out, polished shoes striking the hardwood with clipped finality. The front door slams behind him, the sound echoing through the house long after he’s gone.
It’s fitting, really. There’s a storm rolling in tonight.
And he just brought the thunder.
That night, steady rain taps the windows, a lullaby for a house full of tired hearts.
The kids are asleep. Lila and I sit on the couch, the fire flickering low, her head resting against my shoulder.
“I meant what I said earlier,” she murmurs.
I kiss the top of her head. “So did I.”
She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are wide, honest. “You’re not alone in this.”
“I know,” I whisper.
And for the first time in weeks, I believe it.
It starts with silence. Not the heavy or uncomfortable kind, but the kind that only exists between two people who’ve been through something—who’ve stood side by side, stared down something ugly, and somehow still want to share a couch after it.
Outside, the rain has mellowed into a lazy tap against the windows, like the sky’s just catching its breath.
Lila’s curled into the corner of the couch, bare feet tucked under her, the hem of her sweater stretched over one knee. She looks soft and tired and heartbreakingly beautiful, like someone who’s survived a long day and is still deciding whether to let herself relax.
She hasn’t said much since my father left. Neither have I. But we’re here. Together. That has to count for something.
“You okay?” I ask quietly, voice barely louder than the rain.
She glances over, her lips curving up into something between a smile and a sigh. “You’ve had a hell of a day, and you’re asking ifI’mokay?”
“I know how he is,” I say. “You didn’t sign up for that kind of drama.”
She shrugs. “Maybe not. But I didn’t walk away either.”
That stops me. Because she could have. So many times, she could have packed up her things and gone. I wouldn’t have blamed her. Hell, part of me was bracing for it.
Instead, she stood up to him. For me. For Oliver and Evelyn.
“You didn’t have to defend me,” I say, watching her carefully.
Her gaze flicks up. “Yes, I did.”
