I sat near her.
Before I could decide what to say, she asked the question I had been afraid those words would plant in her head.
“Mom, am I only Dad’s girl?”
There are questions you answer with reassurance, and then there are questions that expose exactly what another person has managed to make a child doubt.
I opened my mouth, but Travis had reached the doorway behind me.
He crossed the room, knelt in front of Zia, and brought himself down to her eye level.
“You are my daughter,” he said. “No tag gets to decide that.”
Zia looked at him for a long moment.
Then Travis reached into her overnight bag.
When his hand came back out, he was holding a small red velvet box.
He placed it in her hands.
The box was small enough for her fingers to close around it completely.
“If Grandma ever makes you feel invisible again,” Travis told her, “you decide whether she gets this. Not me. Not your mom. You.”
