Month Sixty-Six: July
Eighteen months until Killian came home.
Five hundred and forty-seven days.
Isla felt it. The weight of the approaching end. The anticipation. The terror.
Everything was about to change. Again.
Sera was five and a half. Old enough to understand that dada was coming home soon. Old enough to be excited. And nervous.
"Mama, will dada like me? When he meets me for real?"
"He already likes you. Loves you. He knows you from visits."
"But that's different. That's visit me. What about every day me? What if every day me is different? What if he doesn't like every day me?"
Isla's heart broke. "Baby, dada is going to love every version of you. Visit you. Every day you. All of you. Because you're his daughter. Because you're wonderful. Because—because there's nothing about you not to love."
"What if I'm too loud? Or too bossy? Or—or too much like you?"
"What's wrong with being like me?"
