Free Crossing Oceans by Gina Holmes

people daddy.”
    “Yes.”
    “Does he love me?”
    I closed my eyes and buried my face in her curls. “He would if he knew you.”
    “I’d love him too,” she whispered in a tone so vulnerable it was all I could do not to cry.
    My conscience pointed its judgmental finger at me once again. I had deprived the person I loved most in the world of the one thing she wanted more than anything—a daddy. Until now, I hadn’t understood why the Bible said the sins of the father were visited on the son. I thought it unjust of God to charge the innocent for their parents’ sins. Now I realized it wasn’t a threat, but a warning.
    “How about if we read a story?” I managed around the lump in my throat.
    She reached up and rubbed my earlobe between her thumb and pointer finger just like she had done as a toddler. “ Goodnight Moon .”
    I leaned over the side of the bed, pulled the backpack from underneath it, and retrieved our worn copy of the classic. A strip of silver duct tape ran down its spine, loose threads poking out like a well-worn hem.
    I pulled the blanket up and tucked it around her shoulders. She pushed it back down to just above her waist and laid her cheek against my breastbone. My heart pulsated against her as I opened to the first page and read.
    As soon as I said “two little kittens,” her eyelids fluttered like butterflies, then closed. I shut the book quietly and recited the rest from memory, pausing where I knew the pages would turn.
    As I did, my mind wandered to David, replaying that morning’s awful events. He had overreacted, no question about it, but then so had I. The difference was that I had known what was at stake—or rather who—and still I took the low road. He, at least, had been walking blind.
    As Isabella drifted deeper into slumber, I crawled out of bed, onto the carpet and my knees. I rested my forehead against the mattress and waited for divine advice regarding my dilemma.
    * * *
    Eight hours later, I awoke shivering, with a sore neck and stiff legs in lieu of an answer. On Isabella’s side of the bed lay a crumpled afghan. I made my way down the stairs, following the melody of her laughter. As I came to the landing, I found her riding Craig like a horse, kicking her heels into his side and yelling for him to giddyap.
    I wondered how long his poor knees had been enduring the hardwood.
    Isabella waved at me, causing her to lose her balance and tumble to the floor. Her face scrunched into an angry ball. “You made me fall!”
    “I made you?”
    Though her anger was often misdirected, it never burned longer than it took to blow out a match. Instantly her scowl evaporated. “Did you see me, Mommy? I’m a cowgirl!” She ran to me and hugged my legs.
    Her enthusiasm made me smile. “I saw.”
    Craig stood and brushed off his legs.
    My gaze glided over his flannel shirt, half-tucked into faded Levi’s. “Thanks for entertaining her.”
    My father emerged from the kitchen, coffee mug in hand, and stood beside me. He took a sip, wrinkling his nose, apparently no more pleased with the decaf than was Mama Peg.
    I gave him a weak smile. “Hi, Dad. Feeling better?”
    He sighed and glanced at Isabella. “I tried to give her a ride like I used to give you, but my knees are shot, I’m afraid.”
    “I don’t remember you ever doing that.”
    He jerked his head back. “Are you kidding me? From the age of five to eight, I was your one-man rodeo. Funny how the mind stays parked while the body hightails it down the fast lane.” He took another sip. “Your dad’s getting old, Jenny.”
    Isabella went to him and took his hand in hers. “It’s okay, Cowpa. I still love you.”
    He lifted her up and she straddled his waist. They looked so familiar, as though she’d spent her whole life in his arms, and I knew at that moment she’d be okay. He did love her and she loved him.
    From my periphery I caught Craig watching me. “You’re doing it again,” I said.
    He blushed. “Sorry.