The icy layer over the snow crunched before my foot slid deeper into the cold fluff. We walked, Jeremiah shooting me glances from the corner of his eye.

“I want your mother back,” I said. “I want us to be the family we were. Before . . . before all the fame. The touring.”

Jeremiah turned his face toward me, staring so hard, he stumbled over a broken piece of sidewalk. I caught his elbow, but he pulled free from my grip and tugged down his coat.

“I need your help,” I said.

Jeremiah hurried ahead. We climbed the hill and stood there as the wind whipped at our hats, biting into my cheeks and lips. He turned to face me. His cheekbones stood out stark against the cool gray light, and his lashes—the ends tipped in that bit of gold—masked his eyes.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, his voice cracking.

I’d left last year when my son was still a boy. He stood before me now, looking much closer to a man.

Seven months of grueling moves night after night, and for what? What had I gained? A fatter bank account? I looked at my son and grief clawed at my throat.

“I messed up.” My breath came out in random pants. “You hate me. Your mother resents me.” I dropped my gaze. “I thought fame and money would fix everything. I was wrong.”

I forced my eyes back up to meet my son’s. He studied me for a long moment, then another. Neither of us moved.

“We used to sit on the back porch and sing stupid songs about the clouds,” Jeremiah said, his voice wistful. “You and Mom held hands and laughed.”

We hadn’t done that in over a year. Ella came up with the game years ago to help Jeremiah learn the types of clouds. He’d loved the songs she made up so much, I’d started singing about the clouds’ shapes.

Some nights, we’d sit outside until well after dark, singing and laughing.

“I miss that, too.” I scrubbed my hands over my bristly cheeks. “I got my priorities muddled. I’ve always had the most important pieces—you and your mom, now the baby, too. I want that. I want to be with you. For the soccer games, and recitals and first steps and crying in the night and . . . whatever. That’s more important than a record deal or fans or . . . or anything else.” The lump in my throat grew, making talking nearly impossible. “And I’m sorry I didn’t see that when I should have. How I should have. I need you to know. I get it now, Miah. I get what I left behind.”

His eyes hardened but his lips trembled. “You made us both feel really horrible, Dad.”