✨Children of the Fog and Play-Doh Peace Treaties
Joey doesn’t have a dad who visits. Lyssa does. And somehow, between peanut butter accusations, surprise girlfriends, and unicorn play-doh sets, we manage.
This morning, I told Joey he could share the play-doh Lyssa got from her dad. He nodded, like it made perfect sense. Like the unspoken gap didn’t bother him, not yet, not loud. Maybe because he’s never known the shape of what’s missing. Maybe because I fill the silence with breakfast and softness and the kind of presence that doesn’t leave.
Lyssa beamed over her new things, new clothes, a LeapFrog book, that squishy box of colors made for joy. Her dad showed up, and even if it was because I asked, he came. And even if he brought a surprise guest without warning, I let that roll off. Because this visit was for her. Not me. Not him. Her.
We're all adults now. We do what we can with what's left.
And when the fog creeps in, grief, frustration, the deep unfairness of inconsistent love, I remind myself: This house is built of more than absences. Joey still laughs. Lyssa still shares. I still show up.
That’s legacy. That’s enough.
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