Chapter 12
Caleb heard what Milo said from me, not from Milo.
I debated telling him.
Then decided it might matter.
“He said you can just be Daddy.”
Caleb covered his face.
We sat in a small guest cottage beyond the main estate.
No guards inside.
No family audience.
He looked exhausted.
“I don’t know how.”
That was more honest than anything he had said before.
I waited.
“My father was gone half my childhood.”
There.
More history.
Not excuse.
Caleb’s father appeared only when there was something impressive to do.
Sports.
Birthdays.
Public events.
Never fever.
Never nightmares.
Never ordinary breakfast.
Caleb swore he would be different.
Then Anna died and grief drove him out of the house.
He became exactly the kind of father he hated—
present for symbolic moments, absent for ordinary ones.
Rather than admit it, he blamed me for filling the space.
“I thought if I had more authority, Milo would see me differently.”
“No.”
He laughed bitterly.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He looked at me.
“Authority makes adults look.”
Pause.
“Children look when they feel safe.”
That landed.
I was learning it too.
I had spent years believing protecting Milo meant taking over every empty space.
Maybe sometimes protection means leaving a space open long enough for someone else to return honestly.
I told Caleb:
“If you get another chance, don’t impress him.”
He nodded.
“Show up.”
May you like
Simple.
Hard.
