“Yeah, baby?” I rasp.
“Finn’s beautiful too, right?”
“Right.”
Finn looks away, and I find myself adding, “Sobeautiful.”
Her eyes come back to mine, gold and green and brown andwarm.Then she smiles and something unlocks in my chest.
Something big and soft and…uniquely Finn.
“My mom liked pink too,” Chloe says.
Finn glances around the room, deliberately looking at the pink walls and the pink comforter and the pink rug on the floor. “Youlike pink?” she deadpans.
“You know it’s my favorite!” Chloe says on a laugh.
I grin and Finn laughs, and we all talk some more about Anna.
How she used to sing the wrong words to every song, how we put Chloe’s crib together wrong at least three times because neither of us could read the instructions, how Anna insisted on getting married in bare feet because she hated heels.
Eventually, Chloe starts in on her food.
And…I breathe a little easier.
It’s not that I miss Anna any less.
It’s not that the grief is gone.
It’s just—for today, anyway—shared.
And because of that…we’ve been able to find joy in the memories.
Anna’s here. Still part of things.
Still part ofChloe.
Eventually Finn slips out of the room, leaving us to finish dinner and continue talking about Anna. It’s not exactly easy, but it’s…bearable.
Because Finn helped make it that way.
Our eyes connect just before she disappears into the hall, and that spot in my chest softens further.
Our moment is coming.
I’m tired of pretending it isn’t.
For now, though, I stay with Chloe until she’s done with reminiscing—for today, anyway—then carefully set the memory box back on the shelf in her closet.
Then I’m listening to my daughter talk about her day at school and Jake and Ms. Mika and her newest favorite song.
And by the time she falls asleep with one hand curled around the photo of her and Anna that normally sits on her nightstand, I’ve made up my mind.
No more regrets.
No more things left unsaid.
No more distance.
