The night Sophie broke her arm, Daniel and I had taken her to the emergency room after she fell from her bike on the wet driveway. By the time we returned home, it was nearly midnight, and Sophie was exhausted from pain, fear, and hours under bright hospital lights. She asked for a vanilla milkshake and fries from her favorite late-night place, then begged Daniel to sit beside her while I went.
When I returned, my daughter was alone on the sofa, crying softly into a throw pillow, while Daniel stood near the front door pulling on his leather jacket.
“Celeste is having a crisis,” he said, as though those five words explained everything. “She called sobbing, and I need to go over there.”
I stared at him.
“Your daughter just broke her arm, Daniel. She asked you to stay because she is scared and in pain.”
He did not even glance back at Sophie.
“Do not start lecturing me, Marissa. Celeste is not okay, and she needs me more right now.”
Then he walked out into the rain.
