Hunny

Chapter 6: A House Full of Fire and Patience

That night, after Lisbeth finally drifted off—cheek still faintly sticky from the peanut butter she refused to let anyone wipe—Hunny lingered in the doorway longer than usual. The lamp cast a soft gold over the room, catching the curve of her daughter’s lashes, the rise and fall of her tiny chest.

E.C. stood behind her, arms folded loosely, the way he did when he didn’t want to crowd her but wanted to be near.

“She’s getting big,” he murmured.

Hunny didn’t answer. Not at first. Her jaw worked, the way it did when she was trying to swallow something that wasn’t food.

“She looks peaceful,” he added.

Hunny exhaled through her nose. “She looks… trusting.”

The word came out like a confession. Or a warning.

E.C. stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him at her shoulder. “That’s a good thing.”

“For you,” she said. “She trusts you easily.”

He didn’t flinch. “She trusts you, too.”

Hunny’s eyes stayed on the sleeping girl. “Not the same way.”

There it was—the crack she never let anyone see. The one she patched with glitter and grit and a voice that could cut through drywall.

E.C. didn’t try to fix it. He knew better. He just waited.

Hunny finally spoke again, quieter this time. “When she looks at me, sometimes I feel like she’s waiting for something I don’t know how to give.”

E.C. let the silence settle before he answered. “You give her you.”

Hunny scoffed, but it wasn’t sharp. “Yeah, well. Some days that’s a lot. Some days it’s not enough.”

He reached out, brushing his fingers against the back of her hand. Not holding—just touching, like an invitation she could ignore if she needed to.

“She doesn’t need you to be soft,” he said. “She needs you to be real. And you’re that. God knows you’re that.”

Hunny’s throat tightened. She hated that feeling—like emotion was trying to climb out of her chest without permission.

“She’s gonna grow to hate me, and love you more.” she whispered. This was a fear that never left her.

“No,” he said, steady as a stone. “She’s gonna grow from you.”

Hunny blinked hard, once. Twice. Then she pulled her hand away—not rejecting him, just grounding herself.

“I’m trying,” she said. “I really am.”

“I know.”

She turned to him then, eyes sharp but shining. “Don’t you ever tell her I wasn’t trying.”

“I won’t.”

“And don’t let her think I didn’t love her right.”

E.C. smiled, soft and sure. “She’ll know. She already knows.”

Hunny looked back at Lisbeth, asleep and unburdened.

“Good,” she said, voice low. “Because I’m learning. Slowly. But I’m learning.”

And for the first time that day, Hunny let her shoulders drop. Let herself unclench. Let herself believe—just for a breath—that she could grow alongside the girl she brought into the world.

E.C. reached for the light switch.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Let her rest.”

Hunny nodded, stepping back. But before she left the room, she whispered—barely audible—

“Night, baby girl. Mama’s here. She may not be perfect but she will be here.”

It wasn’t a lullaby.

But it was soft.

Hunny lingered in the doorway long after E.C. switched off the lamp. Lisbeth slept with her mouth slightly open, one hand curled near her cheek like she was holding onto a dream. Something about that small, unguarded gesture tugged at a place in Hunny she didn’t visit often.

A place that still hurts.

E.C. touched her elbow gently. “You comin’ to bed?”

“Yeah,” she said, but she didn’t move. Her eyes stayed fixed on her daughter—so trusting, so unarmored. It made something old and brittle inside her shift.

Because she remembered being that small once.

And she remembered what happened when she reached for softness.

The memory rose without permission.

Unwelcomed Memories

She was seven, sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, lining up her crayons in perfect rainbow order. A new box of crayons was a treat she was seldom allowed. Her father’s boots thudded across the room—heavy, impatient. The kind of footsteps that made the air tighten.

Her mother stirred a pot on the stove, trying to keep her voice light. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“It’s late,” her father snapped.

“It’s only five thirty,” her mother said, soft but steady.

A cabinet slammed. Hunny flinched. She didn’t mean to. Her body just knew.

Her father’s eyes cut toward her. “What’re you jumpin’ for, kid? I didn’t touch you.”

Hunny shook her head quickly. “I wasn’t—”

“Then sit still. You’re always fidgetin’. Makes me nervous.”

Her mother tried to intervene. “She’s just a child.”

“And she’ll act like one if you keep babyin’ her.”

He grabbed one of Hunny’s crayons—snapped it clean in half.

“Quit makin’ a mess. You’re too old for this foolishness.”

Her mother knelt beside her after he left, gathering the broken pieces with trembling fingers. “Sweet girl,” she whispered, “don’t mind him.”

But Hunny did.

She minded everything.

That night, she pressed the two halves of the crayon together, trying to make them whole again. Trying to make herself whole again. She promised she’d never need gentleness. Never expect it. Never wait for it.

Tough was safer.

Tough didn’t get snapped in half.

Back to the Present

The memory dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving a tightness in Hunny’s throat she hated. She blinked hard, grounding herself in the dim hallway, in the quiet hum of the house, in the soft breathing of the child who trusted her without hesitation.

E.C. watched her, reading the shift in her posture the way only he could. “You okay?”

Hunny swallowed. “Yeah. Just… thinkin’.”

“About what?”

She shook her head. “Nothin’ worth sayin’ out loud.”

But she stepped into the room again—just one small step—and brushed a stray curl from Lisbeth’s forehead. Her touch was awkward, tentative, like someone practicing a language they never got to learn as a child.

Lisbeth didn’t stir. She just breathed, steady and sure.

Hunny whispered, barely audible, “You’re safe, baby girl.”

The words felt foreign in her mouth.

But they didn’t feel wrong.

E.C. slipped an arm around her waist, gentle as dusk. “She’s lucky to have you,” he murmured.

Hunny didn’t answer. She just let herself stand there a moment longer, letting the past loosen its grip, letting the present soften her edges.

For once, she didn’t pull away.