When Willow suddenly bursts into tears, I feel like absolute s**t. I want to take it back, but it’s too late. The damage is done.
Clara shoots me a quick glare and wraps her arms around her daughter. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go snuggle up with a movie, hm? That sounds like fun.”
But Willow is inconsolable. She just sits there, looking at me and crying.
I just sit here, trying to act like what’s on my laptop screen matters more than the broken heart of a five-year-old little girl who used to think I was her hero.
Clara picks her up and rubs her back, humming a soft lullaby as she carries her back into the bedroom and closes the door behind them.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, I feel worse than s**t.
Several long, achingly silent minutes later, Clara reemerges and walks over to m
