Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 80620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80620 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 403(@200wpm)___ 322(@250wpm)___ 269(@300wpm)
“The conversation with her isn’t over, but you’ll learn this about Lilly and other three-year-olds,” she advises me in a very patient, momlike voice. “Their attention span is that of a gnat. Her grasp of language is rudimentary, and we both probably said about twenty words to her she didn’t even understand, daddy being one of them. It’s a concept we’ll have to teach her, and that will be through words and actions. For example, she may call you Marek. You need to correct her and have her call you Daddy, or whatever you want to be known as.”
“Daddy’s good,” I grumble, instantly knowing that she’s right about this. But how could she not be? She’s been a mom to Lilly far longer than I’ve been a dad, which technically has been all of five minutes.
“Marek,” Gracen says, and squeezes me once more before she lets go. “Lilly is super bright and inquisitive. She’ll digest this. She’ll have questions. We’ll answer them. My best piece of advice to you is that now you need to get to know your daughter. Spend as much time as you can with her, because once the hockey season starts, that’s going to cut into your time together.”
I nod dumbly, trying to figure out how to go about doing this. I wish I’d paid better attention to Lilly and Gracen while they’ve been in this house, because I’m not quite sure how to interact with my daughter.
“Oh, and Marek,” Gracen says softly.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t tell her again that you had to go away for your job. Don’t you dare take one ounce of the blame when she wants to know where you’ve been for three and a half years. That’s mine alone to answer for.”
I don’t even have time to respond. Gracen spins on her heel and walks out of my bedroom, leaving me feeling utterly alone and quite helpless as to what to do right now.
Chapter 4
Gracen
I cover the ham with foil and place it in the oven. I’ve got homemade macaroni and cheese bubbling in the slow cooker and some broccoli steaming on the stove. I woke up this morning with a strong urge for a traditional home-cooked meal like my mom used to make, and I know that’s nothing more than just a pure case of homesickness.
It’s Sunday, and when I was living with my parents, after church Mom would make a huge lunch for us that would provide enough food for us to eat throughout the day and evening—ham, pot roast or baked pork chops; sweet potato casseroles, baked beans, and rice pilaf; fresh vegetables from her garden in the summer or from her canned stock in the winter.
And there’d always be a dessert: pies, cakes, or homemade ice cream.
Sundays were my favorite day of the week when I was back in the modestly sized town of Wilkie, New York. Not only because of the food, but because the day was spent with just my parents and Lilly. Owen didn’t go to church, and he didn’t do family dinners either.
At least not at the small, cheap dining table of Sheryl and Tim Moore.
It was beneath him, although he would never come out and say that. He always said he had to work or made some other equally lame excuse, and I let him.
I let him because I didn’t want him there, impeding on my family time with those I loved the most.
I close the oven door, set the timer on my iPhone, and consider dessert for today. My eyes catch on movement outside the window over the sink and I can’t help but smile as I watch Marek playing with Lilly. By playing, I mean she’s walking around the yard and checking things out, picking flowers and such. He’s following and watching. I can tell by his posture that he’s totally ill at ease, but the smile on his face is genuine as he soaks her in. He has no clue what to do with Lilly, but I’m not too worried about it. She’ll teach him soon enough.
Yesterday’s conversation was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life. It’s going to take some time for Lilly to get this, but she’ll grow into the relationship with Marek. I’m sure she’ll get there a lot more easily than he will.
Last night as I was tucking her into bed, she said, “I like this house.”
I was expecting something like that. Not an overt question about learning Marek was her father, because that’s also a concept she’s going to have to figure out over time, but a roundabout way of poking to get a better grasp on things.
“You like living here?” I asked her with a smile.
Lilly nodded. “I like my bedroom. And I’ve got more toys here than back at Mimi and G-Pa’s house.”