Page 69 of Timber Ridge
The response leaves me stunned. As we step outside, leaving Amanda and Hailey behind, Kane asks, “Is it wrong to leave them together? I mean, I don’t know what to do.”
I nod, experiencing the same conflicting emotions. But Amanda is Hailey’s mom, and if she’s truly trying to establish a relationship, they need time. “I think it will be good for both of them.” Despite my words, my insides coil. I'm not sure if it's jealousy, fear, uncertainty, or simply a fierce protectiveness over Hailey. I worry about the disruption Amanda could cause and the potential pain for Hailey if things don't work out. Yet, I understand the importance of Hailey knowing her mother.
Kane looks at me, his eyes searching for reassurance. “I just don’t want Hailey to get hurt.”
“I know,” I say, squeezing his hand. “But Hailey deserves the chance to know her mom. We’ll be here for her, no matter what happens.”
The rest of the trip is met with silence until we get to town. Kane kisses me. “See you around four,” he says.
“Be safe out there.”
As we walk our separate ways, a sense of isolation wraps around me. The logical part of me understands and even champions Amanda's need to reconnect with her daughter, knowing it's healthy and right for Hailey. Yet, emotionally, it's as if I'm watching a small part of my world shift out of reach, a space where I once stood now being reshaped without me.
Inside, it hurts—more than I expected. Hailey's bright laughter, her endless questions, and the way she'd hold my hand—a sudden absence of these small joys creates a hollow space in my day. It's a personal loss, quiet and deep, and I find myself grappling with the realization that my role in Hailey's life has boundaries I hadn't felt so acutely before.
I focus on the tasks ahead, telling myself that adapting to this new dynamic is part of loving and caring for Hailey—it's about what she needs more than what I feel. I throw myself into the morning for Lucas and Tommy.
Around noon, the door swings open and Amanda steps in, her face etched with aggravation. Her shoulders are tensed, and there's a slight quiver in her voice as she speaks. “She’s been crying and complaining all morning,” she says, almost thrusting Hailey toward me.
For a moment, a surge of worry and confusion grips me. Did something happen? Is Hailey okay? But as Hailey steps forward, I see Hailey's eyes are red from crying. The moment she sees me, her face lights up, and she rushes into my embrace, a clear refuge from her distress.
This immediate reaction—Hailey clinging to me—fills me with a mix of emotions. Relief that she finds comfort in me, annoyance at Amanda for causing this situation, and a deeper worry about the fragile bond between them. Hailey’s instant relief at seeing me, while soothing, also confirms the emotional distance between her and Amanda. It shows that their connection isn't just frayed—it’s barely there.
As I hold Hailey, I try to push aside my frustration and focus on comforting her. Amanda stands awkwardly at the door, her irritation turning into a resigned weariness. The difficult reality of the situation settles over us—Hailey prefers me, and that preference is driving an even bigger wedge between her and Amanda.
“Amanda, maybe it’s best if Hailey stays with me for the rest of the day,” I suggest gently, not wanting to escalate the tension. Amanda nods, her shoulders slumping as she steps back.
“Fine,” she says, her voice filled with resignation. “I just ... I wanted to try.”
I nod, understanding but still bearing the weight of the complicated dynamics. “We’ll figure this out,” I say, more for Hailey’s sake than Amanda’s.
As Amanda leaves, Hailey stays nestled in my arms, and a pang of sadness for the strained mother-daughter relationship fills me.
That evening, the tension lingers in the air. Amanda avoids making eye contact with me, and I can sense the unspoken words hovering between us. Hailey seems more at ease, playing with her toys in the living room, but the atmosphere is anything but relaxed.
After dinner, I find a quiet moment with Kane in the kitchen. He leans against the counter, his expression weary but determined.
“We need to talk about Hailey,” I say, keeping my voice low.
He nods, his concern evident. “Yeah, today was rough.”
I take a deep breath. “I’m worried about her. She was so upset today.”
Kane sighs. “I think we should just let it play out for the rest of the week. Anything new is going to be hard on her, but she will adjust.”
I bite my lip, unsure. A part of me agrees—we do need to give Hailey time to adapt. But another part of me is anxious, worried that letting things play out might just make everything worse. I am torn between supporting Kane's plan and my instinct to step in and protect Hailey from any more distress.
The next day unfolds similarly, and by the third day, it’s clear that Amanda is struggling. She starts each day eager to try again, but her determination seems to wane as the hours pass. Hailey, on the other hand, is visibly upset every morning when we leave her with Amanda. She clings to me, her eyes pleading, and it takes all my strength to gently pry her off and encourage her to stay.
This time, though, after dropping Hailey off, Amanda pulls me aside. Her eyes are weary, her voice strained. “Timber, can’t you see? Your presence—it’s making it impossible for me to connect with my daughter. If you care about Hailey, you’d see that she can’t get to know me with you always around.”
Her words hit hard, a mix of guilt and resistance spinning inside me. I look over at Hailey, who’s hanging her coat and joining the boys at the art table, her earlier distress already fading. Amanda’s right in a way—I am a barrier, however unintentional, between her and Hailey. In that moment, filled with conflicting emotions, I realize the gravity of our situation. This isn’t just about coexisting or adjusting—it’s about making real, painful decisions that affect a little girl who doesn’t understand why the adults in her life can’t be happy.
I need to talk to Kane. As I nod to Amanda, my phone rings. It’s the school district I transferred to. I step away and take the call.
“Hello, this is Timber.”
“Hi, Timber, this is Mr. Bromley from the school district. We’ve had a development and were wondering if you might be able to start a week early,” he says, his voice carrying a mix of hope and urgency.