I give him the time to do so, rubbing my thumb over the back of his hand—memorizing the mountains and valleys of his knuckles.

"But unlike when I met your mom, you came onto the scene wailing." He laughs, and I do too, shyly.

"I was awed by you just like I was by your mother, of course, but the awe was swiftly followed by a tidal wave of fear. There was simply no way something as little as you, I thought, could survive. No possible way that I could be half responsible for something so precious and helpless and not royally fuck it up." Dad glances up to the ceiling, then back to my face with sparkling wet eyes.

"Dad…" I whisper, wrapping my hand around his.

"I had never been so scared." He looks across the table longingly, as if he's seeing the memory play out in front of him. I turn, foolishly, in the hopes that I could see it too.

"But then they placed you on your mom's chest. You immediately calmed, rooted, and found her breast without a second's hesitation.

You fed voraciously, as if you'd been starving.

Gulping and greedy and suddenly seeming so much stronger than that precious, fragile thing they'd just shown me.

And I finally breathed. I knew at that moment that you'd be all right.

That we'd all be all right." He pats my hand again, his voice strangled by his emotions.

"I realized then that all Mom and I would have to do is point you in the right direction and you would take what you needed out of this life."

My heart swells inside of my chest, longing to set him at ease once and for all. "Dad, I—"

"That is all I've tried to do since that day, Prue. Point you in the right direction so you could take what you needed. And, lately, I have been so scared that I'm failing at that. That you're not getting your fill here. That you've been denying yourself for our sake."

"I'm not, Dad."

He nods, squeezing my hand tightly. "If you say this is enough for you, I will believe you. If you can dig yourself a deep enough well here—one that will truly sustain every part of you, one deep enough to never run dry, one that will fill you to satisfaction— then you should stay. Of course I want you to stay, my girl. I just never want you to starve in the process. Promise me, please, that you'll never starve yourself for anyone. "

"I promise, Dad." I rise out of my chair and step toward him, bending down to hug his shoulders. "I promise," I repeat in a whisper.

"I'm sorry, Prue. I'm so sorry."

"I forgive you," I tell him. "But only because you're not going to like what happens next," I say, straightening to my full height.

Dad looks up at me with nervous curiosity lighting his features.

"We, old man, are becoming a democracy," I tease.

"No more secrets. No more decision-making for our family, or for Mom, without discussion. If we're going to make this work, if we're going to keep this family under one roof and run a business while life throws yet another shitstorm at us…

then we'll have to figure it out together.

And, no more delaying treatment. We're going to get you fixed up, okay? "

"And you're absolutely sure?" he asks me, eyes searching my face.

I sigh, then nod. "Yes, Dad."

"All righty then," he replies sheepishly. "Heard loud and clear."

"First things first, I want you to call that home you'd saved Mom a room at today. Let them know she will not be coming."

"But, darling…" Dad says.

"I will figure it out, okay? You need to trust me." I cross my arms in front of my chest, my toes tapping against the floor. "Mom isn't going anywhere. Not yet…Not until we have no choices left."

"Okay, Prue."

"Then, you're going to email your doctor and ask for an appointment. I will be going with you."

"Heard loud and clear."

I hug him once more, then kiss his cheek. "Thank you. I am going to go take a shower. Keep an ear out for Mom, okay?"

"Will do, boss."

"Now that's what I like to hear!" I smile, stealing his mug of coffee off the kitchen counter as I pass through toward the back door. "This is mine now! Bye! Love you!"

"I love you too," he says, chuckling. His eyes rest on the mug in my hand as I unlock the back door and step out onto the porch.

Once outside, I take a deep breath in the cool autumn air and press my bare feet into the brightly painted wooden slats. I look out toward the A-frame on a long exhale and find a box of some kind leaning against the studio's door.

I walk the winding stone path, drinking my father's coffee as I go, and make my way toward the mystery package. Closer to my door, I'm able to see that it's an unlabeled cardboard shoebox tied with a purple ribbon.

Balancing my coffee in one hand, I bend down to pick it up and carry it inside. I carefully drop the box onto the counter next to my mother's washbasin. Setting down my mug, I reach for the bow and untie it, then lift the lid off the box. On top of the purple, crisply folded tissue paper is a note.

If there is any part of you that could forgive me, meet me on the dock tonight.

Yours, Milo.

I run my fingers over the ink on the paper, tracing the handwriting as if my fingertip were the pen. Then I pick up the note and place it to the side before lifting the edges of the tissue paper to reveal what's underneath.

"Oh my god…" I whisper, riffling through the dozens of pages of paper inside. They're all pencil sketches, some more detailed than others, with shading or background scenery, but all of them are beautiful. All of them are of me.

In the first one I pick up, I'm standing in front of him on the first day we met, my hair and clothing windswept as the fabric of my dress clings to my frame. This version of me is almost ethereal, like a draped goddess statue.

Then, there seems to be a collection of memories captured on my birthday.

Several of them are less detailed, small, incomplete glimpses of my shoulder and the lacy bra strap my sweater had slipped down to reveal.

But there are others, which are far more elaborate—such as one of my hands held together behind my back in his grasp, or another of just my bottom lip caught between my teeth.

After those, I find a sketch of me driving my truck, my face turned away from him as my hair blows in the wind, every tight coil accounted for.

Underneath that one, I find a far more detailed sketch, so much so that it could pass as a photograph if not inspected too closely.

In it, I'm holding Milo's newborn niece in my arms and sitting at his brother's dining table, smiling toward Sef as she smiles back at me.

I gasp when I reach for the one of me laying across my collection of blankets and pillows, fully nude.

My cheeks warm when I discover the drawing where his thumb is dragging against my bottom lip, and the heat spreads when I look at the next one where his hand is tight around the base of my neck, his forearm centered between my breasts.

I knew Milo was a talented painter; I'd seen him lend his skillful hand to my mother many times. But I didn't know he was capable of this.

I didn't know, couldn't have ever imagined, that he saw me like this, either.

Up until recently, I felt as if no one could really see me at all.

I spent so much of my life watching other people live, believing I was meant to observe from the other side of the door.

Milo is the first person who has made that door open for me.

Who has made me feel as if I am worth seeing too.

To him, I am a special, watchable, fascinating, beautiful thing worth creating art about.

I know for certain I cannot give that up. Not without a fight.

At the very bottom of the box, under many, many more drawings, there's another note.

If you change your mind, you know where to find me.

I decide for certain then what I already suspected I'd do.

I will meet Milo on the dock tonight. It won't be easy to move past this.

It won't be as smooth or simple as things between us were before.

But if he truly wants to stay, then I know I'll want to try.

I'm not afraid of failing with him. Not anymore.