“But she’s not my dad. She’s not my dad at all.” Whitney sat up straighter. “And I shouldn’t treat her that way. I shouldn’t take my anger at my dad out on my mom. I shouldn’t let my fears get in the way of my mom’s chance to be happy.”

I stared at her in disbelief, my jaw dropping. Was she really only thirteen years old?

She seemed to understand my shocked expression. “I’ve been going to therapy,” she said, as if that explained everything.

“Oh.”

“And it isn’t that my fears aren’t real—they are. But the sadness I feel when I hear my mom cry is worse.”

“You hear her cry?” A heavy weight settled on my chest.

Whitney nodded, her own eyes shining with tears. “Just about every night. Last night was awful. After we saw you at the gym, Keaton told us about how you’re going to help him with his science project, and my mom went to her room as soon as we got home. She turned on her television, but we heard her crying anyway.”

I stared at my hands on my lap. “It kills me to think of her so sad.”

“Us too. But I think I know why she was so upset. Our dad never did things like offer to help us with school projects. He bought a lot of fancy gifts, but that’s not always the answer.”

“No,” I agreed. “It isn’t.”

“But it’s not just about our dad. It’s because she wants to be with you. She says all she needs is me and Keaton to be happy, but I don’t believe her.” Whitney took a deep breath. “I was wrong to get in the way before, and I’m sorry. So I came here today to make sure you meant what you said about taking care of her, and protecting her.”

“I meant what I said.”

“Then you need to be with her. Because she loves you too.”

“It’s not that easy, Whitney. She sent me away, remember?”

“That’s because she was scared.”

“But I don’t know how to make her not scared,” I said, frustrated all over again. “I’m not good at this. I think I know what to say, and then it turns out to be the wrong thing. All I know how to do is be honest, and it backfired.”

“Can’t you try again?”

I didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know, Whitney. Maybe she’s just not ready for it.”

She stood up. “You know, you don’t sound like the Mr. DeSantis that knocked on the door that night.”

Looking up at her in surprise, I blinked. “I don’t?”

“No. That guy was a fighter.”

Our gazes held for a moment, then she spoke again.

“My mom deserves a fighter, Mr. DeSantis.”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, she does.”