Prologue #3
I bend forward and press both palms over my eyes, but I can’t force the tears back. My chest seizes around the first rough breath, and then another follows.
Axel’s hand settles between my shoulders. He doesn’t speak or try to pull me together.
He stays beside me while I cry.
By the time I step back inside, my eyes feel raw and my head aches from the strain of holding everything in.
Josie stands at the end of the hallway holding a clean shirt and a pair of leggings against her chest. Her hair is still tangled from sleep, and there’s a streak of dried syrup near the corner of her mouth.
She studies me as I close the door.
“Were you crying?”
The instinct to protect her rises fast. I could tell her the wind made my eyes water or that I’m tired. She might even believe me.
And I’d be teaching her that grief is something we hide from each other.
“Yes.”
Her eyebrows pull together. “Did Uncle Axel make you cry?”
“No. He was helping me.”
“How?”
“He sat with me so I wasn’t alone.”
She thinks about that. “Were you crying about Mommy?”
“Yes.”
“Because you miss her?”
“That’s part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
I take the clothes from her and set them on the small table beside us. There are too many other parts to lay on her. The guilt belongs to me. So do the phone calls, funeral decisions, and every question about what happens next.
“I’m sad she died,” I say. “I’m sad for you. I’m sad about everything she won’t get to do with you.”
Josie looks down at her bare feet. Her toes curl against the hardwood.
“Are you sad because you have to keep me now?”
The question lands like a blow, and I brace one hand against my knee to stay upright.
“What?”
“Mommy can’t take care of me, so you have to keep me all the time.”
“Josie, look at me.”
She keeps her eyes on the floor.
I reach for her hands and wait until she finally lifts her face. “I have always wanted more time with you.”
“But now it’s every day.”
“Yes.”
“What if you don’t like every day?”
A current of apologies she is too young to understand rises in my chest. I spent years being the father who came for visits and then left again. I thought saying I loved her was enough to cover the empty spaces between us.
She doesn’t know if I can handle every day. I’ve never given her enough of them to prove it.
“Some days will be hard,” I tell her. “You might get mad at me. I might tell you to brush your teeth when you don’t want to or pour too much syrup on your pancakes.”
“You do pour too much.”
“I’ve been informed.”
Her mouth twitches, but the worry stays in her eyes.
“We’ll have bad days,” I continue. “I’ll still want every day with you.”
She studies me with the same serious expression she had in bed this morning. “You want me?”
“More than anything.”
“Even when I’m bad?”
“You aren’t bad. Sometimes you make bad choices. So do I.”
“Did Mommy make bad choices?”
The question could become a trap if I let my guilt answer it.
“Everybody does,” I say. “Your mom made mistakes. So did I. We both loved you every single day.”
“Even when you didn’t live with us?”
“Especially then.”
She steps closer, and I gather her into my arms. Her knees settle on either side of my hips as I stand. She wraps herself around me with a complete trust I haven’t earned.
“I didn’t know daddies cried,” she murmurs against my shoulder.
“We do.”
“Grandpa doesn’t.”
“I promise he does.”
“When?”
“I’m not giving away his secrets.”
She leans back to look at me. “Will you cry again?”
“Probably.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “What do I do?”
“You don’t have to do anything.”
“But I can hug you.”
“You can always hug me if you want to.”
She presses her cheek against mine. “I want to.”
I hold her tighter and carry her into the guest room.
My duffel still sits open on the floor, a jumble of clean clothes and the ones I wore yesterday.
Josie’s new pajamas are folded on the dresser beside a toothbrush still in its package.
Nothing in this room looks permanent. Three days ago, none of this was our life.
I sit on the edge of the bed with her in my lap.
“Are we sleeping here again tonight?” she asks.
“If that’s what you want.”
“What if I wake up and you’re outside?”
“I’ll tell you before I go anywhere.”
“What if I wake up first?”
Her voice is so quiet I almost miss it.
“I don’t like waking up first now,” she says.
I set her on the bed and pull my duffel toward me. Instead of leaving everything in a pile, I carry my clothes to the dresser. I place them in the empty drawer beneath hers and then set my boots beside the bed. My phone charger goes into the outlet closest to her pillow.
She watches every move.
“This is where my things are,” I tell her. “Tonight, I’m sleeping right beside you. Tomorrow morning, when you open your eyes, I’ll be here.”
“Promise?”
I climb onto the bed and hold out my hand. She slips hers into mine.
“I promise.”
Josie lies down beside me and pulls my arm across her middle. I stay while her body softens against mine, my phone unanswered on the nightstand and the rest of the day waiting outside the room.
Tomorrow morning, she won’t have to look for me.