Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 64818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
She turned and stalked away from me.
That day, I got more than I had anticipated in negotiations. It was one of the best deals the Royals had ever given a player. Ella sent me a text with a video of Lucy’s performance, and it was beautiful. I made sure to show it to my buddies—my closest teammates—who I went out with for a celebratory beer after I signed the documents.
When I got home, Lucy and her mom were cuddled on the couch, watching a movie. I sat beside Lucy, tugged on her hair playfully, and asked if she wanted to go out to a special daddy-daughter dinner to celebrate her recital. I made sure to tell her how much I loved the piece she played.
“No, thank you,” she replied quietly, not taking her eyes off the movie. I’ll never forget what they were watching—Tangled—a movie she adored and had watched a bazillion times before on DVD. I know this because I’d watched it with her several times myself.
“Oh, come on,” I coaxed, trying to tickle her in the ribs a little. She squirmed closer to her mom, not laughing from the tickle but grimacing like she didn’t want to be touched.
Ella stared over Lucy with sorrow in her eyes. She gave a tiny shake of her head, but I wasn’t ready to give up.
“Vinnie’s Steakhouse,” I tried to tempt her because my kid loves beef. “We’ll split that big thirty-ounce ribeye. It will be a celebration.”
“Nothing to celebrate,” Lucy muttered, her head resting on her mom’s shoulder and her arm crossed over her belly. Ella cuddled her with an arm around her shoulder. It had been clear they were a unit, and I hadn’t been included.
I looked back at Ella, who advised me, “Lucy decided she wants to stop piano lessons, so that was her last recital.”
“Oh,” I’d replied stupidly.
I couldn’t think of another damn thing to say because to do so would be disingenuous. There’s no doubt I killed my daughter’s potential love of the piano by not coming to her recital. I knew that because of Ella’s expression of disappointment and Lucy’s dull dismissal.
Soundlessly, I’d gone into the kitchen and blankly looked around. Should I get something to eat? Cook them dinner?
Instead, I moved upstairs, figuring I’d watch TV on the couch in the bonus room. My mind was swirling with guilt. My brain was trying to make me rationalize—attempting to convince me that I did the right thing for my family and that, one day, Lucy and Ella would appreciate it.
As I walked by Lucy’s room, I glanced in as the door was wide open. I had indeed bought her a huge bouquet of flowers that I gave her before I left for my meeting.
They’d been stuffed into her garbage can beside her desk.
I blink out of that memory, feeling the heavy weight of guilt. Far heavier and more pressing than it ever was in the past, because, back then, I refused to cope with it. I made myself feel better by telling myself over and over again that I made the right decision for my family that day. That I would make up for it. Lucy would forgive me, and all would be okay.
I’m not sure if she ever did forgive me, but as I sit here next to her, I realize I have far more to make up for than just with Ella. I need to win my daughter back, too.
“Let’s go hang out at my house then,” I concede, not wanting to push her away by making her try to relive those great times we had together.
♦
It’s not so bad hanging at the house. To my surprise, Lucy didn’t hole up in her room. Instead, she stayed in the living room with me, binge-watching Marvel movies. We engage in a frequent debate—who is the strongest Avenger?
I say The Hulk.
She’s clearly Team Thor, and yeah… she has a little bit of a dreamy-like voice when she talks about him.
Christ, she’s growing up too fast.
We make homemade pizza for dinner, splitting it in half. She’s strictly a pepperoni girl, and I load mine with veggies in addition to pepperoni and crumbled sausage.
As we’re eating at the kitchen table, I ask, “Want to come to the game tomorrow? You can bring friends if you want. Just tell me how many tickets.”
Lucy shrugs, picking a piece of pepperoni off her pizza.
Her reticence doesn’t surprise me. Lucy and Ella used to come to most home games together. Sometimes, if a school event interfered, they’d have to skip. For the most part, though, they were always there to cheer me on.
That changed when Ella and I separated, and she stopped coming. That hurt, too, because it was April and the playoffs were just starting. Lucy would come to some games, usually with a friend and their parents since I’d provide the tickets, but she didn’t come to many.