He took a breath.
“Why Emma?”
Diane stared.
“What?”
“Do you make Lucas stand beside the table?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He doesn't take food.”
Michael looked at her.
Diane’s face changed.
“That's not what I meant.”
“Then?”
“Lucas follows rules.”
“He is eleven.”
“Yes.”
“Emma is seven.”
“I know.”
“Do you take Lucas’s plate?”
“No.”
“Stairs during dessert?”
“He's too old for that.”
Michael leaned back.
“Then Emma gets punishments because she is younger.”
“Because she needs different discipline.”
“Who decided that?”
“I did.”
“Alone.”
“You were gone.”
The sentence returned.
Michael nodded slowly.
“So when I travel, you believe you have authority to create a separate disciplinary system for my daughter.”
“Your daughter.”
Diane repeated it.
Michael stopped.
There it was.
She heard herself too.
The room became still.
Michael’s voice softened.
“You noticed.”
She looked away.
“Diane.”
“Don't.”
“You said my daughter.”
“I know.”
“Lucas is your son.”
“I know.”
“What is Emma?”
Her eyes filled.
“Don't do this.”
“I'm asking.”
“She is my stepdaughter.”
“Is that how you think of her?”
“Sometimes.”
Honest.
Painful.
Michael waited.
Diane continued:
“You want me to say daughter because that makes everybody feel better.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“I want to know what is true.”
She swallowed.
“When we married, I thought I could love her like Lucas.”
“Do you?”
“Not the same.”
Michael felt something in him break slightly.
Diane saw.
“Neither do you.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“You do not love Lucas exactly the way you love Emma.”
Michael went quiet.
He wanted to deny it.
Could not.
He loved Lucas.
Truly.
He had coached soccer.
Sat through school plays.
Stayed beside him in urgent care after a broken wrist.
Paid for camp.
Taught him to ride a bike after Lucas’s biological father disappeared from regular contact.
But Emma was his daughter.
His late wife Sarah’s child.
The baby he had held at 2:11 in the morning while Sarah slept after twenty-three hours of labor.
Same?
No.
Love was not identical.
That did not make one child less deserving of dignity.
Michael said:
“You're right.”
Diane seemed surprised.
“I don't love them identically.”
“But I do not use that difference to decide who gets to eat at the table.”
She closed her eyes.
“I know.”
“No.”
He leaned forward.
“Do you?”
She cried now.
“I did not wake up one morning deciding to make Emma feel unwanted.”
“I believe you.”