I pour an extra finger—or three—of whiskey into a tumbler, kill the lights in the kitchen, and pull down the plain cardboard box from the top shelf of my closet. Then I stretch my legs out on my bed. A bed my wife has never shared with me.
When Daisy died, I refused to stay in the home we shared. It was too difficult in those early days, and I thought it would helpme move through my grief faster. I had an infant to take care of and didn’t have time to be sad. Now, when I look around one of the rooms she’s never set foot in, it’s a stark reminder that I’m living a life she’ll never have.
Lifting the lid, I inhale sharply, my lungs yearning for a whiff of her scent. Too many years have passed, and her smell has faded from the box, but I pretend anyway. I could spritz her perfume, but I’m saving the partially filled bottle for Bea one day. I gently dig through artifacts until I find what I’m looking for: the last picture of the three of us.
Tiny Bea is flat against her mother’s bare chest, covered by a blanket I keep preserved in this box. Daisy is staring down at our daughter’s milk-drunk face, and my gaze is locked on my wife.
She’d been an absolute champ that late spring day. In labor for nearly twenty-four hours, then pushing for two. When the photo was taken, the sun had barely risen, and it felt like we were the only three people in the world. We had our whole lives in front of us.
Or so I thought.
6
Asher
“Daddy. Wake up, wake up.”
A sharp pain lances my midsection as a little foot connects with my ribcage.
“Oof,” I grunt. “Dolly?”
My head is screaming at me, but adrenaline kicks in, and I shoot up in bed. If Bea is here and not next door, then something is wrong.
“Where are Grandma and Grandpa?”
Bea jumps up and down on the mattress. She’s fully dressed, with her hair in two braids, making me wonder how late it is.
“Grandma and Grandpa are staying for the summer!” she cheers.
Tugging my daughter onto my lap and ignoring the way my stomach rolls, I ask, “What do you mean?”
“They said they’re staying.” Her whole face lights up.
Her excitement is contagious. I can’t help but smile too.
The grin falls quickly, though, when a voice sings a “hello?” from the front door, accompanied by a knock.
Shit. What time is it? I snatch my phone off the nightstand,only to be met with a blank screen. Dammit. I never plugged it in last night.
“Be right there,” I call out. Then I turn to Bea and say, “Stay here. Daddy will be right back.”
She plugs her nose as I kiss her on the forehead. “Ew, your breath stinks.”
I roll my eyes as I stumble to the en suite bathroom in my boxer briefs.
Gotta love how honest kids are.
I gargle mouthwash while spraying on deodorant, then snag the clothes I wore yesterday off the floor and bring them to my nose. Since they pass the sniff test, I quickly toss them on.
When I exit the bathroom, Bea is no longer on my bed.
Gotta love how kids never listen.
The solid wood door is open, and on the other side of the screen, Claire watches me approach.
“Hi,” I greet her, tucking my daughter into my side. “You’re?—”
“Late, I know. I’m sorry. I was early-ish, I promise. I went to the welcome center first, but when Brenner couldn’t get through to you, he sent me over here. I hope that’s okay. Are you…” Her eyes trail up and down my body. “Did you just wake up?”
