Chương 4
Lucy was already awake.
She sat at the table wearing one of his old oversized sweatshirts because her dress was still hanging in the laundry room.
Her feet did not touch the floor.
She swung them gently while staring at a bowl of cereal.
"Morning," Stallone said.
She looked up.
"Morning."
Her voice sounded different.
Not happy.
Not afraid.
Just quieter.
Stallone poured himself coffee and sat across from her.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
The quiet was not uncomfortable.
That surprised him.
He had spent most of his adult life believing silence meant something was wrong.
With Lucy, silence seemed like a place where she could finally rest.
After breakfast, Stallone helped her brush her hair.
She complained about the brush pulling too hard.
He apologized.
She told him he always apologized when he did something wrong.
"Is that bad?" he asked.
She thought about it.
"No."
A pause.
"Mommy said sorry when she broke my blue cup."
Stallone stopped brushing.
"What happened to the cup?"
"It broke."
"I mean after."
Lucy shrugged.
"She kept the pieces."
That detail stayed with him.
Not because of the cup.
Because of what it revealed.
Her mother had understood that broken things could still matter.
Stallone looked at the little girl in the mirror.
"Your mom sounds like she was a good person."
Lucy smiled faintly.
"She sang wrong."
"Wrong?"
"She forgot the words."
Stallone laughed softly.
"That is a serious crime."
Lucy smiled.
A real one.
Small.
Quick.
Gone almost immediately.
But he saw it.
And he was grateful.
The doorbell rang at nine.
Lucy froze.
The reaction was immediate.
Her hand tightened around the edge of the table.
Stallone noticed.
Before he opened the door, he crouched beside her.
"It is okay."
She looked at him.
"Who is it?"
"I don't know yet."
That answer seemed to calm her more than a false promise would have.
He walked to the door and looked through the window.
Daniel stood outside.
No Claire.
No angry expression.
Just his son standing on the porch with his hands in his jacket pockets.
For a moment, Stallone saw the little boy Daniel used to be.
The boy who had hidden behind his father during thunderstorms.
The boy who had cried when their dog died.
Then the image disappeared.
Stallone opened the door.
Daniel looked older than he had the day before.
Not physically.
Something else.
Like he had spent the night arguing with himself and lost.
"Can I come in?"
Stallone stepped aside.
Daniel entered.
His eyes immediately found Lucy.
She looked at him.
Then looked down.
That hurt him.
Stallone saw it happen.
Daniel noticed too.
His face changed.
"Lucy."
She did not answer.
Daniel swallowed.
"I brought your backpack."
He held it up.
A pink backpack with a small rabbit keychain hanging from the zipper.
Lucy reached for it.
But she did not move toward him.
Daniel walked closer and placed it on the table.
"I thought you might need it."
"Thank you," she whispered.
Those two words seemed to affect him more than anger would have.
Because gratitude from a child who was afraid was not the same as forgiveness.
Stallone motioned toward the living room.
"We need to talk."
Daniel sat on the couch.
Stallone stayed standing.
Neither seemed comfortable enough to relax.
"I talked to Claire last night," Daniel said.
Stallone waited.
"She says she was frustrated."
"That is not an explanation."
"I know."
The answer came quickly.
Too quickly.
Stallone looked at him.
"You know?"
Daniel rubbed his hands together.
"I know it looks bad."
"It looks bad because it was bad."
Daniel looked away.
There it was.
The defensive reaction.
The instinct to protect himself.
Stallone had seen it his entire life.
Daniel did not lie easily.
He avoided.
He softened.
He changed the shape of things until they were easier to carry.
"I didn't think she was scared of me," Daniel said.
Stallone's voice lowered.
"She wasn't scared of you."
A pause.
"She was scared of disappointing you."
Daniel looked toward Lucy.
She sat on the floor with her backpack beside her, quietly arranging crayons.
"What did she tell you?"
"Enough."
"That is not an answer."
"No."
Stallone looked at him.
"Because I am trying not to make this about what she said."
Daniel frowned.
"Then what is it about?"
"It is about what you allowed."
The words landed harder than Stallone expected.
Daniel stood.
"Allowed?"
His voice rose.
"You think I wanted this?"
"No."
Stallone shook his head.
"I think you wanted things to be easier."
Daniel stared at him.
"You don't know what it is like."
That sentence carried years inside it.
Stallone felt the old urge to defend himself.
To list everything he had sacrificed.
Everything he had done.
Every mistake he had admitted.
But he stopped.
Because this was not about him.
"You're right," he said.
Daniel blinked.
"What?"
"I don't know exactly what it is like."
Stallone sat down.
"But I know what it looks like when someone is drowning and starts blaming the person closest to them for getting wet."
Daniel looked away.
His eyes moved around the room.
The old photographs.
The shelves.
The places where time had collected.
"I miss her."
Stallone knew who he meant.
"I know."
"No, you don't."
Daniel's voice cracked slightly.
"I wake up and for half a second I forget."
He stopped.
His mouth tightened.
"Then I remember."
Stallone did not speak.
"I look at Lucy and I see her."
The confession sounded painful.
Not cruel.
Painful.
"And then I feel guilty because sometimes I just want one day where I don't have to miss someone."
Stallone looked down.
There was the truth beneath the anger.
Not an excuse.
A wound.
A wound Daniel had let become someone else's burden.
"You needed help," Stallone said.
Daniel nodded.
"I know."
"But you looked for control instead."
Daniel sat back down.
The room became quiet.
May you like
From the kitchen, Lucy dropped a crayon.
She whispered something to herself and picked it up.
