He rubbed his eyes.
“I never said that.”
“I know now.”
His sister was quiet.
Then she asked, “What did you tell Poppy before you left?”
“That I’d call after dinner.”
“Did you?”
“I called Viola.”
Helena said nothing.
She did not need to.
Cassian picked up the personal phone.
For years, he treated having a private number as proof that his daughter could reach him.
It had taken one forgotten device and one dishonest adult to show how little that arrangement guaranteed.
The next morning, Poppy came downstairs carrying her tablet.
She placed it beside his coffee.
“I didn’t delete them.”
Cassian looked at the screen.
The recent calls filled it.
The familiar contact picture showed him holding a fish he had not actually caught.
Poppy chose that photograph because she said his expression looked like an argument.
He remembered laughing when she changed it.
Now he watched her finger move down the list.
“One. Two. Three.”
He covered the edge of the tablet gently.
“You don’t need to prove the number.”
“But it was twelve.”
“I believe you.”
She looked up.
“Before looking?”
“Yes.”
Poppy withdrew her hand.
After breakfast, she asked whether he wanted to hear the apology.
“The card?”
“I practiced saying it too.”
Cassian put down his cup.
“You don’t owe me an apology for calling.”
“But I learned it.”
He could hear the problem.
She had worked hard.
Prepared carefully.
Made herself ready for a task that no longer existed.
“What would you like to do with it?”
Poppy thought.
Then she fetched the envelope.
She took out the card and stared at the sentence.
I AM SORRY I KEPT WANTING YOU.
“Can I cross that out?”
“Yes.”
She found a pencil.
