Not because his daughter cried at dinner.
Because the woman he intended to marry had repeatedly used his love as something she could withhold from a child.
Viola asked whether counseling would change his mind.
He told her she could seek help for herself.
He hoped she would.
The marriage would not go forward.
Telling Poppy was harder than ending the engagement.
Cassian waited until they had time.
No school departure.
No bedtime.
No car moving toward another obligation.
They sat at the kitchen table while Miriam worked nearby.
“Viola and I aren’t going to get married.”
Poppy stared at him.
“Because I called?”
“No.”
“Because I told?”
“Because I learned she had made decisions that hurt you and our trust.”
His daughter looked at the fruit bowl.
“If I didn’t say, would you still?”
He answered carefully.
“If I hadn’t learned what happened, I might have kept making a mistake. That doesn’t make you responsible for fixing my life.”
Poppy pushed an orange an inch across the table.
“I liked the biscuits.”
“I know.”
“She made the squirrel names.”
“I remember.”
“Can I still think that was funny?”
“Yes.”
Poppy’s face crumpled.
Cassian moved beside her.
She did not ask him to hold her immediately.
He waited.
After a while, she leaned against him.
“I didn’t want her to hate me.”
He felt the familiar urge to promise something he could not know.
Instead, he said, “Whatever she feels is hers to manage with adults. You don’t need to make yourself easier to love.”
Poppy held his sleeve.
“Will somebody else answer your phone?”
“Sometimes people may pick up a device. But nobody else gets to tell you what I feel about you.”
“How will I know?”
The question was practical.
Fair.
And not one he could answer with another speech.
So he asked if she would help him understand what made reaching him confusing.
He would make the arrangements.
She would not have to design her own rescue.
They changed how calls worked.
