Lily seemed content with this compromise, running her fingers over the metal links. Sebastian moved carefully to the armchair by the window, still holding Lily, and sat down. She was already squirming, clearly not the type of child who stayed still for long.
"She has your energy level," Nora said, settling on the edge of the bed. "Everything at full speed all the time."
"I was like that. You never stopped moving during meetings. Pen clicking, leg bouncing, fingers drumming. You only stayed still when you were focused on something important."
The fact that Nora remembered these details—that she'd paid that much attention—made something warm unfold in Sebastian's chest.
Lily wriggled free and slid down to the floor immediately, toddling toward a basket of toys in the corner. She moved with that unsteady gait of early walkers, arms out for balance, completely determined.
"When did she start walking?" Sebastian asked.
"Three months ago. She was early. The pediatrician said most babies don't walk until 12 to 15 months, but Lily was cruising at 9 months and fully walking by 14 months." Nora's pride was evident. "She's determined. Once she decides she wants something, she doesn't stop until she gets it."
"Definitely my daughter," Sebastian murmured.
Lily retrieved a stuffed elephant from the basket and brought it to Sebastian, holding it up proudly. "Ellie," she announced.
"That's a very nice elephant," Sebastian said seriously, taking the offered toy. "Is Ellie your friend?"
Lily nodded enthusiastically. "Ellie sleep." She mimed putting her head down, complete with fake snoring sounds.
Sebastian laughed—actually laughed for the first time since arriving at this hotel. "Does Ellie sleep a lot?"
"Every night," Nora confirmed. "Lily won't go to bed without her. We had a minor crisis last month when Ellie went missing for three hours. Turned out she was in the washing machine."
"The washing machine?"
"Lily decided Ellie needed a bath." Nora's smile was soft. "She's very nurturing. Takes care of all her stuffed animals like they're her babies."
Sebastian watched his daughter return to the toy basket, digging through it with single-minded focus. She pulled out blocks, a board book, a set of plastic keys, examining each one before discarding it.
"What's she looking for?" He asked.
"Who knows? Half the time I can't figure out what's going on in her head." Nora stood and moved to the window, maintaining distance. "She's smart, though. Way ahead on language. She knows about 50 words already."
"Is that a lot?"
"The average is maybe 20 at this age."
Pride swelled in Sebastian's chest, immediately followed by guilt. He should have been here for those first words. Should have been there when she learned to walk, when she needed Ellie in a crisis, when she started exploring the world.
Lily found what she'd been searching for: a small board book with bright pictures. She brought it to Sebastian and climbed into his lap with the confidence of someone who'd never been turned away.
"Book," she commanded, settling against his chest.
Sebastian looked at Nora helplessly. "I don't... I've never read to a child before."
"Just point at the pictures and say the words. She'll fill in the rest."
The book was simple, farm animals with corresponding sounds. Sebastian opened to the first page. "What's this?" He asked, pointing to a cow.
"Moo," Lily shouted happily, patting the picture.
"That's right. And this?"
"Baa!" More enthusiastic patting.
They went through the entire book twice, Lily providing sound effects with increasing volume and drama. By the time they finished, Sebastian's ears were ringing, but he was smiling—genuinely, fully smiling in a way he hadn't in years.
Nora watched from the window, her arms wrapped around herself.
"She's amazing," Sebastian said softly. "You did an incredible job."
"I did what any mother would do."
"No." Sebastian met her eyes over Lily's head. "You did more. You raised her alone without support while dealing with—" He stopped, the enormity of it hitting him. "God, Nora, how did you manage? Work, childcare, everything?"
Nora's expression shuttered. "I figured it out. Women have been raising children alone for generations. I'm not special."
"You are to me."
The words hung in the air between them, weighted with everything unsaid.
"Lily..."
Squirming, clearly bored with the serious conversation: "Beach. Beach! Mama, beach!"
"Okay, sweet girl. Beach." Nora set Lily down and moved to pack a small bag: sunscreen, water, snacks, a change of clothes. The efficiency of her movements spoke to months of practice.