“Not even a little trim?”
“Not even that.”
I laughed.
Emily didn’t.
At twelve years old, she meant nearly everything she said.
I ran my fingers along the ends of her hair and smiled.
Those quiet Sunday nights were among the few moments when my life truly felt peaceful.
Then my laptop chimed from the kitchen counter.
I immediately tensed.
Emily noticed.
“Don’t.”
I looked at her.
“It’s Sunday.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
But I already knew who had emailed.
Melissa.
My boss had a way of finding me after hours, during dinner, and even on weekends.
And I had formed the awful habit of answering every time.
Emily leaned back against my knees.
“Grandma’s taking me shopping tomorrow.”
“That sounds fun.”
“And we’re getting ice cream.”
My mother-in-law, Linda, had always played a huge role in Emily’s life.
She drove her to school whenever I couldn’t.
