Christ.
“Can I put a picture of Finn in my memory box?”
My throat goes tight, but I manage to say, “Yeah, baby.”
“Okay,” she says.
Nothing about it isokay.
I swallow hard. “Do you want a snack?”
Another nod.
“Apple and peanut butter?”
This time there’s the smallest flicker in her eyes. “With chocolate chips?”
“Is there any other way?” I joke, even though my insides are shredded.
My choice.
My fault.
My pain to endure.
We walk into the kitchen, the scent of dinner in the air, but I don’t move to the pot Chrissy left simmering on the stove, don’t snag an apple from the fridge.
Because I’m noticing all the things that are wrong.
The dish towel not folded the right way.
The island full of clutter.
The bananas going brown on the counter.
And when I finally make it to the fridge…
It’s wrong too.
Chloe’s lunch box isn’t in its spot. There aren’t any rogue cocktail ingredients hanging out on the shelves. Her favorite yogurts are missing and the leftovers are cleared out. And my stash of peanut butter cups is completely depleted.
There’s no sign of Finn here either.
I grip the door too hard and close my eyes for a second.
What the fuck have I done?
No.
I breathe deep and slow. I had to do it. I had to protect Chloe.
I did the right thing.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
So why does this all feel so wrong?
I shove that down and get Chloe settled at the counter with her apples and peanut butter and chocolate chips and glass of milk. Doing something so innocuous, so normal almost convinces me that I can get through tonight.
