I nod at Mom, letting her know she’s aware of Elle.
“Daddy!” Beth calls out as Dad walks in carrying a bag of bagels and a drink holder with three cups. “Is my bagel in there?”
“You bet,” Dad says, kissing her on the forehead. “We also got you a chocolate mocha.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” she says, grinning as she plants a kiss on his cheek.
She’s Elle’s sister, but she’s been ours this whole time. A part of this family in every way that matters.
I taught her how to ride a bike. Seth pulled her first tooth. Nate taught her how to play soccer. Thomas taught her how to belch the alphabet, much to Mom’s horror and her absolute delight. Now, he’s teaching her how to cook.
Mom and Dad have spent the last ten years loving her, raising her, guiding her—just like they did with us. With the kind of unwavering devotion that’s rare in this world.
Elle might be angry that she missed it all. And I get that. I do.
But I pray that when the dust settles, she’ll see it too—that Beth’s had a family who’s loved her every single day.
***
“Can I call Mommy and ask if she wants to come play with us?” Hannah’s question cuts straight through me. She always thinks of her mother whenever we go to the park.
If I believed, even for a second, that her mom might say yes, I’d make the call every time. But I know better. I’ve seen that hopeful spark fade from Hannah’s eyes too many times.
“Do you think she’ll come this time, Daddy?”
I hand her the phone and watch as she carefully scrolls through the contact list, her little fingers finding Meg’s number. We both wait in silence as it rings.
“It’s ringing!” she says, her eyes darting around the park as if scanning for her mother already.
“Mommy? This is Hannah—your daughter.”
I smile, but it’s the kind that hurts. The fact that she thinks she has to remind her own mother who she is… says everything about their relationship.
"Hi, Mommy. Hi. Do you want to come to the park to play with me and Daddy?"
I can only hear her side of the conversation, but I don’t need to hear the rest. I watch her face carefully, every shift in expression. When she starts tugging the hem of her shirt, it takes everything in me not to reach for the phone.
"You can’t? Aah, Mommy..."
Silence.
"Next weekend? When? Saturday or Sunday?"
More silence.
"You’re going to church on Sunday? Can I come with you?"
Still nothing. But I can see it—Hannah’s getting nervous now. She bites her lip, voice softer.
"Why are you laughing?"
I clench my fists, fighting the urge to grab the phone.
"Okay... You promise to call me on Friday? Okay. I lov—hello?"
She blinks.
"She hung up."
