Chen’s apartment where she went after school. Dad, when are you coming home? Mrs. Chen is teaching me to knit, but I’m really bad at it. And also, she made cookies. Noah smiled and typed back. On my way. Save me some cookies. Three heart emojis appeared instantly because Emma was eight and used emojis the way some people use punctuation.
He drove home thinking about what he’d tell her. How to explain an opportunity this big without getting her hopes up in case it fell through. How to be the stable parent she needed while his own life felt like it was splitting into two completely different possible futures. Mrs.
Chen answered the door wearing a bright yellow cardigan and holding knitting needles. Your daughter has many talents, she announced. Knitting is not one of them. Um, basit. >> Hey. Emma appeared behind her, holding up something that might have been intended as a scarf, but looked more like a lumpy snake. I’m learning. You’re learning that some skills require patience, Mrs. Chen corrected.
But she was smiling. Go on, both of you. These cookies won’t stay warm forever. Emma grabbed Noah’s hand and dragged him toward their apartment, chattering about her day at school. something about a pop quiz in spelling that she’d aced and how Jordan had gotten in trouble for putting glue in Melissa’s hair during art class.
And could they please, please, please get a hamster because her friend Zoe had one and it was so cute. We’ll see. Noah said the universal parent response that meant probably not, but I don’t want to say no right now. Their apartment felt smaller than usual after spending time in Victoria’s estate.
The living room with its worn couch and carpet that had seen better days. The kitchen where the cabinets didn’t quite close properly. The bathroom with the permanent stain on the ceiling from when the upstairs neighbors toilet had leaked 2 years ago. But it was home. And Emma had never complained about any of it because she didn’t know any different.
“Dad, you’re being weird,” Emma said, looking up at him critically. “You have your thinking face on.” “I have a thinking face?” “Yeah.” You get all squinty and your mouth does this thing. She demonstrated, scrunching up her face in what was probably meant to be an impression of him. I do not look like that. You totally do.
So, what are you thinking about? Noah sat down at the kitchen table and gestured for Emma to join him. Remember the woman I helped the other night during the storm. The pregnant lady you rescued like a superhero but with an old car instead of superpowers. Exactly like that. Well, I went to meet with her today.
Emma’s eyes went wide. Did she give you a reward? I told you movies are real. Not exactly a reward. More like a job offer. What kind of job? Noah tried to figure out how to explain foundations and nonprofits to an 8-year-old. She wants to start an organization that helps families who are struggling.
People who work really hard but still have trouble paying bills or taking care of their kids. She wants me to help run it. Emma processed this seriously. Would it pay money? Yeah, good money enough that we wouldn’t have to worry about rent or groceries anymore. Then you should definitely do it. It’s not that simple. M. This would be a really big change.
We’d have to, I don’t know, figure out a lot of things and there might be some weird stuff that comes with it. What kind of weird stuff? The woman who offered me the job, Victoria, she’s really rich and kind of famous. If I work for her, people might be interested in us, want to know about our lives, maybe say things that aren’t nice. Emma frowned.
Why would people be mean? Because some people don’t like it when good things happen to regular folks like us. They think we don’t deserve it. That’s stupid. Yeah, it is. Noah reached across the table and took Emma’s hand. But I need you to understand that if I say yes to this, things will be different. Maybe better in a lot of ways, but definitely different.
And I won’t do it if you’re not okay with it.” Emma was quiet for a long moment, her face serious in that way that made her look older than eight. “Mom would want you to say yes,” she said finally. Noah felt his chest constrict. “What makes you say that?” “Because whenever you were scared of something, mom always said you should do it anyway.
” She said, “Being scared just means something’s important.” Emma squeezed his hand. This is important, right? Yeah, sweetheart. It’s important. Then you should do it. We can handle different. We’re good at handling stuff. Noah looked at his daughter and wondered when she’d gotten so brave. So certain that they could face whatever came next.
Maybe she was right. Maybe they’d survived enough hard things that they could handle this, too. Okay, Noah said. Okay, I’ll tell her. Yes. Emma grinned. The kind of full-faced smile that reminded him so much of Sarah it hurt. Can we celebrate? Maybe with ice cream. We literally just had cookies at Mrs. Chen’s.
That was cookies. This is celebration ice cream. They’re different. Noah laughed and it felt good. Like maybe things were actually going to be okay. Fine, but just this once. You always say just this once. And I always mean it. They went to the corner store that sold ice cream by the pint, and Emma picked chocolate chip cookie dough while Noah got plain vanilla because he was boring and accepted it.
