“It’s not,” he replied. “Grief isn’t a contest. You found out late. It’s hitting you all at once. That’s its own kind of brutal.”
I swallowed, throat tight.
Dad continued, voice low. “And now you’ve been told you might be raising his daughter. No father should have to ask that of anyone. But Matt did. Which means he trusted you, Ethan. More than you think.”
I closed my eyes. The guilt pressed heavier, along with the responsibility.
“I shouldn’t have driven,” I murmured, changing the subject. “I couldn’t even feel my hands.”
“I know. I asked you not to.” His jaw tightened. “But you insisted.”
“I already missed the funeral.” My voice wavered. “I couldn’t stay away any longer. I needed to be here.”
Dad nodded, something like pride, or pain, flickering through his tanned face.
“You’re here now,” he said. “That’s what matters.”
His words steadied me, like a hand on a shaking shoulder.
I breathed deeply. The first steady breaths I’d taken since receiving the devastating news.
Outside, the rain eased into a soft patter.
Somewhere down the road, my mother’s car engine faded into the distance, carrying Lily toward the park.
Toward Claire, my traitorous heart whispered.
Chapter 9
Claire
The next day crawled by in the way only school days could, which came from pretending to be composed in front of two dozen children while your heart was frayed at the edges.
By mid-morning, my throat already burned from reading aloud three picture books, my hair frizzed from running my hand through it.
But the kids were gentle today. Softer, maybe they sensed my sadness.
Lily wasn’t in class, and the empty desk near the window carried a quiet gravity. The children kept glancing at it, then at me, as if waiting for reassurance I didn’t entirely have.
We spent the last hour making cards, bright and earnest. Smudged crayons. Stick figures with crooked smiles.
One card had a purple cat with wings. Another had a rainbow that took up the whole page. Every one of them had Lily’s name.
By the time the final bell rang and the classroom emptied in a wave of backpacks and laughter, I felt like I’d aged a decade.
I gathered the cards carefully, smoothing the papers as though they were fragile. Maybe they were. Grief made everything delicate.
Outside, the sunlight was gold and dwindling.
The air smelled faintly of motor oil from Ben Hartley’s mechanic shop across the street, its garage door rolled open, country rock drifting from a dusty speaker. He was bent over Sophie’s old hatchback, sleeves rolled up, grease streaking the curve of his forearm. Sophie stood by the bench, sipping iced tea and chatting with him while keeping an eye on her four-year-old, Owen, who zoomed toy cars across the pavement.
For a moment, I just stood there, the folder of cards tucked under my arm, breathing in the familiar rhythms of this town. Maplewood in its unpolished, comforting simplicity.
Sophie spotted me and waved me over.
“You look wiped,” she teased, patting the bench beside her.
I sat, exhaling. “Long day.”
