Page 116 of Daddies on Ice
She nods eagerly. “I like being on TV.”
Inside the cabin, I help Becky out of her snow gear while the cameraman and sound technician set up their equipment.
The familiar weight of their presence settles over me like a heavy blanket. Every movement feels performed, artificial, as if I’m playing a role in my own life.
The producer approaches with an apologetic smile.
Her makeup is perfect despite the cold weather, and I wonder absently what that must be like, to have your appearance be such a priority that you maintain it even in sub-zero temperatures.
“We’ll try to stay out of your way,” she says. “Just pretend we’re not here.”
Right. Like that’s possible when there’s a camera pointed at my every move, documenting what might be one of the most emotionally turbulent periods of my life for national television.
Becky and I head to the small kitchen, and I pull out the ingredients for sugar cookies.
The routine of measuring and mixing usually calms me, but today my hands feel clumsy, uncertain.
As I measure flour, my thoughts drift back to Ash’s words this morning.
The hurt in his voice when I told him I wasn’t ready to choose.
The way his jaw clenched when I mentioned Jake and Carl, like their names were physical blows.
We’re all adults. We all care about each other. I’ve seen the way the three of them interact when they think I’m not looking.
There’s respect there, even friendship.
Why does society dictate that love has to fit into neat little boxes?
Why can’t we create our own definition of what a relationship should look like?
“Mommy, you’re making a mess,” Becky giggles, and I realize I’ve been stirring the cookie dough so vigorously that flour has scattered across the counter like a small snowstorm.
“Sorry, sweetheart.” I force a laugh and help her roll out the dough. The cameras capture every moment, but I try to focus on Becky’s excitement as she uses cookie cutters to make stars and hearts.
Her concentration is absolute as she carefully presses each shape, her tongue poking out slightly in that way that always makes my heart melt.
“This one’s for Ash,” she announces, holding up a slightly lopsided star. “And this heart is for Jake. And this one”—she cuts out another heart—“is for Carl. They all need cookies. And Krystal.”
My throat tightens at her innocent acceptance of our complicated situation.
If only adult relationships were as simple as sharing cookies.
While the cookies bake, we bundle up again. I set them to cool and we head outside to build a snowman.
Becky’s laughter fills the air as we roll snowballs, and for a few precious moments, I forget about everything else.
The sun breaks through the clouds, casting diamond sparkles across the fresh snow, and my daughter’s joy is infectious. But then I catch myself scanning the tree line, looking for movement, for any sign that we’re being watched.
Paranoia has become second nature now, a constant undercurrent of fear that colors even the most innocent moments.
Every shadow could hide a threat. Every sound could be footsteps approaching. The stalker has stolen my peace of mind along with my sense of safety.
The film crew follows us outside, capturing Becky’s joy as she decorates our snowman with twigs for arms and stones for buttons.
I try to smile naturally for the camera, but inside, I’m wound tight as a spring.
The weight of their scrutiny combined with my own internal chaos makes every gesture feel forced.
