Chapter 22
Because for once, his improvement did not require a reward.
I touched his arm.
A small gesture.
Kind, not romantic.
"I'm glad Lily gets that version of you."
His eyes shone.
"Me too."
Then he left.
Three years passed.
Our lives developed a rhythm.
Vincent took Lily every Wednesday afternoon and alternating weekends.
He attended preschool events.
Pediatric appointments.
Dance recitals.
He once sat through a ninety-minute children's production in which Lily played a tree and had exactly one line.
He applauded like she had won an Oscar.
Sometimes he disappointed her.
Sometimes I did too.
Parenthood didn't turn either of us into saints.
But when he made promises to Lily, he learned not to make them casually.
That mattered more to me than every apology he had ever given me.
My restoration company grew.
Not explosively.
Naturally.
We moved into a larger studio.
I hired a project manager.
I bought the building instead of renting it.
The first time I signed paperwork with only **Emily Carter** written beneath the line, I sat in my car afterward and cried.
Not because I hated the name Moretti.
Because I had found my own again.
I dated occasionally.
Nothing serious.
For a long time, I didn't want serious.
Peace was too new.
I wanted to learn its shape before inviting anyone else into it.
Vincent dated too.
He never discussed the women with me unless one might eventually meet Lily.
That boundary worked.
One December afternoon, when Lily was almost four, she came running into my kitchen carrying a photograph.
It showed Vincent holding her at a Christmas market.
Both of them were wearing ridiculous red hats.
"Mommy! Daddy said this is his favorite picture."
I crouched beside her.
"It's a good one."
"He said I'm his favorite girl in the whole world."
I smiled.
"You probably are."
She studied me.
"Were you Daddy's favorite girl?"
Children can ask questions adults spend years avoiding.
I brushed hair from her forehead.
"Your daddy loved me."
"Do you love Daddy?"
I thought carefully.
"I care about your daddy very much because he's your daddy."
She accepted that.
Children often accept clean truth more easily than adults.
Then she ran away.
That evening, I looked at the photograph again.
Vincent was smiling.
Really smiling.
No suit.
No cold expression.
No men standing behind him.
Just a father holding his daughter.
For a moment, sadness touched me.