Page 212 of Fighting Chance

I’ve taken the gift she’s given me and will savor it, protect it, until my dying breath, and even then I’ll stand guard of Layla’s heart as a ghost, because I can’t see myself ever growing tired of her. She is a soul that I will search for in every lifetime, one that I will cherish and love for eternity because she’s special, so incredibly special. I know she’s the one.

Opening Emmy’s door, I come to a stop as I spot her looking in the mirror, turning this way and that, assessing the clothes she chose for herself. It may be mismatched but it’s all her—a pink ballet-like bodysuit with a rainbow tutu, layered with a denim jacket.

She must love what she sees because she smiles at herself. Her dimples, matching my own, pop out as she grins.

I’m about to step forward and praise her, always praising her, but I hold myself back as she leans forward and cups her hand, whispering to herself in the mirror, “Don’t worry, Daddy won’t scream at you that you’re ugly. He’s not like Mommy.”

The happiness that was coursing though my bloodstream comes to such an abrupt halt I don’t think it’s circulating to my heart any longer. It certainly isn’t beating.

Before I can wipe my horrified expression off my face, Emmy’s honey-brown eyes dart up, spotting me in the doorway. She spins, holding her little hand to her chest in panic.

“It’s okay, munchkin,” I quickly assure her. “I talk to myself too. It’s normal.”

My words do nothing. Instead, Emmy’s lip starts to quiver, tears springing to her eyes.

Rushing forward, I kneel before her, laying my hands gently on her arms. “Oh sweetheart, I promise it’s okay. Why are you upset? Did I startle you? I’m sorry, I should start knocking, huh?”

Her tears slide down her cheeks and across her lips, but they still don’t move to talk.

“Munchkin, I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to scare you. I promise it’s okay to talk to yourself. I do it all the time. In fact, we should do it together.”

Her gaze turns assessing, disbelieving.

Lifting her up, I take a seat in front of the mirror, placing her in my lap so we’re staring at each other, her little nose red from crying. Maybe I embarrassed her or perhaps she didn’t want me to know that her mom called her ugly. Whatever it is, I will do anything to put that smile back on her face. I refuse to be the one to make my daughter cry—ever.

She might come to me crying about what others have done to her, but never in her life will she go to others crying about what I’ve done to her.

I quickly place a kiss on her head and wrap my arms around her, trying to comfort her.

“Every morning I stand in the mirror and look at myself and say, I am strong, I am kind, I am smart, I am handsome”—her lips twitch—“and I am powerful.” Squeezing her a little, my smile genuine as I spot the tears beginning to dry, I go on. “And now we can do it together, every morning if you want.”

Pointing at her in the mirror, I say gently, “Look at yourself and say it with me, Emmy. I am strong.”

I pause, waiting for her to follow, and my heart skips a beat at her hesitant voice.

“I-I am strong.”

“I am kind,” I coax.

“I am kind.”

My smile spreads at her soft voice. “I am smart.”

“I am smart.

“I ambeautiful,” I say with a little flourish.

She giggles, her hand cupping her mouth. “I am beautiful.”

I whip my arm out beside me, fist pumping the air. “I am powerful!”

Her little fist springs upwards. “I am powerful!”

Her cheeks are growing rosy from smiling.

“I am good enough,” I all but choke out, my voice thick. Perhaps I need to take my own advice.

Emmy’s smile is infectious. “I am good enough.”