Seraphina had invented the charges.
But I had helped create a world in which my daughter believed access to me was scarce enough to have a price.
I spoke to Ella about that separately.
Not as a speech about how guilty I felt.
She did not need to manage my remorse.
We sat on the back steps after lunch.
“I’ve asked you to wait and then forgotten to come.”
She looked at the garden.
“Sometimes.”
“That was wrong.”
“You were busy.”
“Yes.”
She traced a line along the edge of the step.
“She said busy people can stop wanting things.”
“What things?”
“People.”
I looked at her.
She continued without meeting my eyes.
“If they keep being bothered.”
The garden seemed very quiet.
“I can be busy and still want to be your dad.”
Ella looked up.
“I should have helped you understand when I could listen instead of leaving you to guess.”
She considered that.
“Can you say after?”
“After what?”
“After the call. After the shower. The real one.”
I understood.
Not later.
Not in a minute that belonged to nobody.
A clear next point she could recognize.
“Yes.”
“What if you forget?”
“You can remind me.”
“What if you’re cross?”
“I still need to keep my word or explain why the plan changed.”
She leaned against my arm.
Then she asked whether I wanted to see a caterpillar.
I did.
I followed her to the hedge.
For twenty minutes, the caterpillar was the most important creature in my working day.
Miriam found another piece of the problem.
Ella had stopped asking for small treats at her house.
A book from a school sale.
Money for a class photograph.
A new pair of swimming goggles.
She said she didn’t need them.
Her mother thought she was becoming careful with spending.
