“He fixes things.”
I almost laughed.
Almost cried.
Children remembered what adults forgot.
Before our marriage became silence and lawyers and locked accounts, Ethan had repaired broken cabinet doors.
Built Lily’s crib.
Fixed toys with tiny screwdrivers.
Maybe that was why grief inside a marriage was so strange.
You weren’t only grieving what someone had done.
You were grieving every good thing that had once been true at the same time.
“Do you miss Daddy?” I asked.
Lily nodded.
“Do you?”
