I lean forward and dig the heels of my hands into my eyes, ceasing the flow of tears. I only cry about Daisy one day a year. Never more than that.
The circles Claire draws on my back are meant to be tender and sympathetic, but my shoulders tense and humiliation washes over me.
“Ash, honey,” she soothes. “You deserve to share your life with someone.”
“I have?—”
“I know you have Bea,” she cuts me off, her tone kind but stern. “And you know that’s not who I’m talking about.”
I stand abruptly and back away. “Excuse me. I’m going to shower.”
Luckily, Claire doesn’t say another word as I escape to my bedroom.
The water practically boils my skin as I stand beneath the stream, thoughts racing so quickly that not a single coherent one comes to the forefront of my mind. After dressing in thebathroom, I open the door, and I practically jump out of my mustache when Bea is waiting for me on the bed.
“Morning, Daddy.” Grinning, she throws Bunny into the air and catches the worn stuffed animal in her lap. Bunny has seen better days. It used to be Millie’s.
“Morning, Dolly.” I launch myself onto the mattress, digging my fingers under her arms, eliciting the best sound in the world—my daughter’s laughter.
Once she’s begged for mercy and caught her breath, she stares up at me, her hazel eyes full of concern.
“Why are you sad?”
Clearing my throat, I sit at the end of the bed. “I’m not sad.”
Bea crawls over next to me and rests Bunny on my leg. “It’s okay if you’re sad. Lots of big boys cry.”
That gets a laugh out of me. “Oh, do they? And who told you that?”
“Grandpa. He cries every year on my birthday.”
My heart lurches. “What?”
“Uh-huh. Me and Grandma cry too,” she remarks nonchalantly.
“Why?” I scoop her onto my lap. “Why do you cry on your birthday?”
“Because we miss my mom.”
All the oxygen is stripped from my lungs. And then some.
“Do you miss her? Is that why you were crying?” she asks.
I nod, unable to form the words to respond. My daughter wraps her dainty arms around my neck, and we stay like that for I don’t know how long. When she finally releases me, the top of her hair is damp from my tears.
“I’m sorry, Dolly.” I sniff.
Her little lips turn down, her head tilting to one side. “Why?”
I’m sorry for a million things. Where do I even begin? How do I tell a five-year-old I’ve been hiding my tearsand grief because I thought that’s what was best for her? I thought I was protecting her, but suddenly I can’t help but think I’ve been doing her a disservice this entire time.
“Because I’ve been keeping a secret from you.”
“But we don’t keep secrets in this family. Only surprises.”
“You’re right. And Daddy is very sorry. I cry on your birthday, too, because I miss your mom, and I’ve been hiding that from you. It was wrong and I won’t do it again. I’m really sorry.”
“That’s okay,” she says feebly.
