“Nothing.” She played with some loose threads on her quilt.

“I don’t believe you.”

She shrugged. “I have a stomachache.”

Concerned, I set her book on her nightstand. “Your stomach hasn’t bothered you for months. Did something happen?”

“No.”

I didn’t believe her. Clearly there was an issue, but she wasn’t going to tell me what it was. For a moment I panicked that it was something related to puberty, and I got lightheaded and sweaty. What the hell was I going to do when all those changes set in? God, why couldn’t they stay young forever?

“Millie, do you …” My voice cracked, and I cleared my throat. “Want the heating pad? Some Advil?”

“No. I’m fine, Dad.” She rolled away from me onto her side. “’Night.”

“’Night.” I leaned over, kissed her head, and switched off her lamp. Her hair smelled sweet, too, but not like baby shampoo. More fruity. Like women’s shampoo. Then I stood there a moment looking at her, wondering where the years had gone. It seemed like only yesterday that—

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

“Looking at you. Thinking that you’re growing up too fast.”

“Quit it. It’s weird.”

I laughed. “Sorry. I’m going now. You’re sure you don’t want the heating pad?”

“I’m sure. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” I reached her doorway and turned around. “I love you.”

“Love you too.”

I felt a little better as I went downstairs, but not much. Millie’s stomachaches, like Felicity’s nightmares and Winifred’s monsters, had begun after their mother left and usually flared any time Carla said she was coming to visit, even though she rarely followed through.

In the kitchen, I went over to where Millie’s phone was plugged in, picked it up, and entered her passcode. She and I had an agreement—I allowed her to have a phone, and she allowed me access to it at any time to make sure she wasn’t on social media or texting with serial killers. Every now and then, I glanced at her messages, but mostly there were just long threads full of emojis between her and a few friends, and occasionally texts from her mother.

When I saw that Carla had been in touch today, Millie’s stomachache made sense.

Hello darling, I just wanted to tell you how excited I am to come see you! Remember not to say anything to your sisters so the visit can be a surprise! I’m only telling you because you sent me the note saying how much you miss me. It was so sweet of you to write me, but hearing that you are sad because of me made me feel sad too. I had a migraine for days afterward. I really wish I could be there for the mother daughter fashion show you mentioned, but that date isn’t good for me. But I will see you Friday and we’ll have such a good time!

I set the phone down, my blood boiling. I’d specifically asked Carla not to tell the kids about her visit, and she’d gone behind my back immediately and messaged Millie. And how fucking dare she make Millie feel guilty for telling her mother she misses her! Seething, I paced the kitchen. I wanted to punch something. Throw something. Destroy something. Opening the back door, I took a few gulps of icy air to calm myself down, but it barely had an effect. Then I came in the house and downed a shot of whiskey.

Ten seconds later I was going up the stairs three at a time, then opening Millie’s door. “Millie? You still awake, honey?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I talk to you for a sec?” I asked, fighting for composure.

“Okay.”

I walked over to her bed and sat down at her feet. “I saw the message from Mom on your phone. Is that what’s bothering you?”

Silence. “She said she’s coming to visit.”

“I know.”

“Is she really coming this time?”

“That, I don’t know.”

Millie rolled over and looked up at me. “Sometimes I really miss her and wish she was here. And sometimes I wish she would just stay away.”

My throat got tight. “It’s okay to wish that, honey. Everything you feel is okay.”

“There’s a mother-daughter fashion show at school,” she went on sadly.

“I saw that. What’s it for?”

“It’s some kind of fundraiser. You get to make your own outfits. All my friends are doing it.”

“Well, that’s stupid and unfair,” I snapped. “Not everybody has a mother around.”

“All my friends do. Even if their parents are divorced, their mothers are still around.”

I exhaled, guilt weighing heavily on my shoulders. “I’m sorry, Mills.”

Millie was silent a moment. “Does she even love us anymore?”

“Of course she does.” I leaned over her, bracing a hand above her shoulder and brushing her hair back from her face. “And so do I.”

“I know you do.”

It should have made me happy, but I still felt like somehow, it wasn’t enough. I tried again. “Sometimes moms and dads decide they don’t want to be married anymore, but they always love their children.”

“But if you love someone, you want to be with them, don’t you?”

“Well … yes. Usually. But love is complicated.”

“It shouldn’t be,” she said with ferocity. “If you love someone, nothing else should matter. You should do everything you can to be with them as much as possible.”

“I agree.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Mom says you didn’t love her enough and that’s why she had to leave.”

My composure slipped. “That’s fucking ridiculous.” Then I sighed. “Sorry. I’ll put a dollar in the jar when I go downstairs.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to. I was mad when she said that too. It made me feel bad.”

“You have nothing to feel bad about.” Leaning forward, I pressed my lips to her forehead. “Listen. Maybe I wasn’t good at loving her. Maybe I didn’t try hard enough. I don’t know. In all honesty, honey, I just felt confused most of the time. But what matters to me now is that you and your sisters know how much I love you and want to be the most awesome dad possible, even if your college funds are being depleted by the swear jar.”

That brought a little smile.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea.”

“What?”

“What if I did the fashion show with you?”

“You?”

I sat up tall and puffed out my chest. “Yes, me. I’m a good-looking dude, don’t you think?”

She giggled. “I guess.”

Getting off the bed, I did my best John Travolta Saturday Night Fever strut across her room. “And I’ve got moves, Millsy.”

“Oh my God, Dad. Please do not walk like that in front of my friends. Ever.”

“Hey, listen. It is a dad’s solemn duty to embarrass his children in their adolescent years as often as possible. So no promises.”

“Are you really going to do the show with me?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes. But I need to ask and make sure it’s okay to have a dad in the mother-daughter fashion show.”