The hotel room feels too big.

The ceiling is high. The carpet has a busy pattern that makes your eyes feel funny if you stare at it too long. The air conditioner hums in a steady, low sound that you’re trying very hard to ignore.

You’re Miranda Lambert’s 15-year-old stepdaughter, but most people say you’re developmentally more like a little kid — somewhere around two or three. Big feelings. Little body control. You understand more than people think… but waiting is still really, really hard.

Your dad said he was going “down to the lobby real quick.”

Quick is not a good word. Quick is confusing.

You’re sitting on the edge of the hotel bed with your favorite comfort item in your lap — maybe it’s a stuffed animal, maybe it’s a soft blanket you bring everywhere. Your fingers rub the same corner over and over because it feels right. Safe. Predictable.

The hallway outside makes sudden noises sometimes. A door slams. Someone laughs too loud. The ice machine clunks.

You don’t like that.

Miranda is in the bathroom getting ready for something later tonight, the light spilling out under the door. You can hear her moving around — drawers opening, water running, the soft clink of bottles on the counter. That sound helps. It means someone is here.

But Dad isn’t here.

Your legs kick against the mattress. You slide off the bed and pad over to the hotel door, pressing your palm against it like maybe you can feel him on the other side.

You whisper, “Daddy?”

Nothing answers.

Your chest feels tight. Waiting stretches and stretches and stretches.

You rock a little on your feet. The humming gets louder. The lights feel brighter. You squeeze your comfort item close to your face and breathe in the familiar smell.

The bathroom door opens softly.

Miranda steps out, noticing you by the door.

She crouches down to your level without saying anything at first. Her voice, when she speaks, is gentle and steady.

“He’s coming back, baby. Lobby’s just downstairs.”

She holds her hand out slowly — not forcing, just offering.

The hallway outside goes quiet again.

You stare at the door.

Still waiting