The Runt of the Litter

A Pardon for Promise-Breakers

Note: I've never successfully written a story in this format but I figured I'd try it. This flashes between different ages (Anna at 4, 7, 9, 11, and 14) with some reflection at the end. And the story idea arose when I realized how often I type the words "Anna didn't care for promises" or something of the sort. I don't know how many stories I've published here with that phrase but I keep catching myself writing it. So I thought about why I thought Anna would hate promises so much and BAM, I wrote a story. Okay, that's my skinny. Also my apologies because this could probably use more editing. But without further ado:

A Pardon for Promise-Breakers

"Daddy?"

John turned from the counter, startled by the small voice behind him. "Hey, Peanut," he greeted, his voice low and quiet in the early morning. "What are you doin' up so late?"

Little feet pitter-pattered across the floor as Anna hurried across the small kitchen toward him. John scooped her up in her Daddy's Little Princess pajamas, and smiled softly when she snuggled into his shoulder. He remembered a few years after Mary died, thinking how he would have liked to have a daughter. He'd imagined different circumstances. But the feeling was the same. The little girl in his arms was as sweet as he'd dreamed and had the same power of wrapping him around her little finger.

"You getted back quicker than last time, Daddy," Anna whispered in his ear. But she whispered the way all four year olds whisper-- by making their voice breathier, but not quieter.

"Well, that old ghost saw me coming," John whispered back, and used one hand to tuck a stray curl behind Anna's ear. "And he knew he didn't stand a chance. It didn't take me long to kick his ass."

Anna giggled when John used his free hand to make a fist and pretend-punch at the air. "I miss you, Daddy," she said, growing somber again. She leaned up and kissed his chin, covered in five o'clock shadow. It didn't escape John's attention that she hadn't put the word in past tense. Was it possible to miss someone even as you were in their arms?

The inquiry reminded him of one day a few months after Dean was born when he and Mary had a fight, and tried to go to sleep in the same bed that night as if nothing had happened. He remembered lying there thinking he could feel her slipping away from him, even as he held her. He remembered the ache he felt as she left him without moving an inch. You didn't have to physically walk away to leave. It was just more final that way. And John knew that these days he was rarely present, even when he was home-- home being wherever his children were.

"I missed you too, Peanut," he said, hoping the correction wouldn't go unnoticed by the four year old. Because if there was anyone left in his life who he didn't feel slipping through his fingers, it was his little girl.

"Are you stayin' today?"

"Of course I am," John said, but he didn't know for sure. If he found a hunt, he would head out. If he found two, he would put Dean on one and figure out which one of them Anna would be safer with.

"Promise?"

John hesitated. "I promise." The smile on Anna's face made it worth it, even though he had a hunch she would be disappointed by the end of the day because of that promise.

"Dad? We headin' out early or something?"

John looked over as Dean stumbled into the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. It made him look ten again instead of twenty-three. "Nah," he answered, reveling for just one moment in the calm that had somehow been achieved in their small family for a few minutes in the early morning. It felt good as long as it lasted, and John wondered, not for the first time, just what he was playing at, making these kinds of moments so rare in the eyes of his children. "Haven't spotted any hunts yet."