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Rain had been falling since morning.
Not a dramatic storm.
Just a cold, gray, endless rain that made everything feel tired.
Jackson came to my house after work with Emma asleep in his arms.
He looked shattered.
“What happened?” I asked.
He laid Emma gently on my sofa and covered her with the quilt my mother had made.
Then he handed me a folded piece of paper.
Rachel had requested unsupervised visits.
Not overnight.
Not full custody.
Just three hours every other Saturday.
My first reaction was immediate.
“No.”
Jackson gave a humorless laugh.
“That’s what I said.”
“Good.”
He sat down and leaned forward, elbows on knees.
“Then Emma cried.”
I looked at him.
“She cried?”
“She heard me say no in the parking lot. Rachel didn’t argue. She just said she understood. But Emma started crying in the car.”
“Why?”
Jackson’s voice went thin.
“She said Rachel promised to show her how to make cinnamon pancakes.”
I sat beside him.
He pressed both hands together like he was praying, though I had never known him to pray.
“She likes her,” he whispered.
I said nothing.
“She doesn’t know what Rachel did. She doesn’t remember being left. She just sees a woman who colors ducks green and knows songs I don’t know.”
His eyes filled.
“I thought I was protecting her from Rachel. What if now I’m protecting myself from Emma loving someone else?”
I hated that question.
I hated it because it was brave.
And because it had no comfortable answer.
“You are her father,” I said.
“I know.”
“No one can replace that.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”