Chapter 3
Lauren didn't just prepare a bedroom for my daughter; she staged a high-gloss showcase of the life I had spent fourteen years building from scratch.
When Sophie came home on Sunday evening, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes held an intense, defensive brightness.
She dropped her school bag by the entrance and held up a sleek, professional camera -- the exact model she had pinned to her vision board months ago.
"Dad and Lauren bought it for me," Sophie said, her chin lifted with defiant pride.
I stood by the counter, drying a glass with a linen towel. "That's a serious piece of equipment, Sophie."
"You should see the room Lauren made for me," Sophie continued, watching my face closely, waiting for a crack in my composure.
"A custom canopy bed, a velvet reading bench, and an entire photo wall that lights up with Welcome Home, Sophie in warm neon."
I didn't flinch. "It sounds very thoughtful."
Sophie frowned, visibly frustrated by the lack of an explosive reaction.
She crossed her arms, her teenage defensiveness sharpening into an attack.
"Lauren spent three hours asking about my photography ideas. She actually sat down and listened to me. At least she isn't glued to a laptop screen working on architecture projects all night like you always are."
The words struck me right in the ribs.
On the kitchen island, right beside my drafting roll, sat my leather planner.
It was open to entry #12 -- the night Sophie had gone into emergency allergic shock, when I had stayed awake until dawn holding her hand while Ben partied in Florida.
Every protective, wounded instinct in my body urged me to point at that open page.
I wanted to say: Do you know why I work late? Because your father stopped contributing to your tuition months ago. Do you know where he was during #12?
I looked at Sophie's young, eager face, clutching her new camera like a lifeline.
Tearing down her father to win an argument wouldn't heal her; it would only drag her into adult warfare and make her feel like a burden.
Slowly, deliberately, I reached out and closed the leather planner, sliding it out of sight beneath a roll of blueprint paper.
I walked over to the stove, poured a mug of warm honeyed milk, and set it gently in front of her.
"You have a natural eye for lighting and framing, Sophie," I said softly, meeting her gaze with quiet warmth. "That camera fits your talent. Don't forget you have a chemistry quiz tomorrow morning."
Sophie looked at the steaming mug, then up at my steady face. The wind went completely out of her sails. She pressed her lips together, confused by the absence of a fight.
She took a small sip of the milk, set the mug down, and avoided my eyes.
"Dad said I should test out the new setup," she muttered, dropping the bomb onto the counter. "I'm staying at Lauren's apartment for three nights next week."