“Lily.”
I put the rabbit down.
“Look at me.”
She did.
“You did nothing wrong. Nothing.”
“Then why did you scream?”
“Because I don’t understand how your dad had this.”
That was when I noticed the envelope beneath the rabbit.
My name was written across it in Daniel’s handwriting.
I opened it.
The paper shook in my hands.
Daniel wrote that he had been there the day of the accident.
He had been driving nearby.
When he saw the wreck, he stopped.
He called 911.
Then ran toward the car.
My husband was already beyond help.
But Josie was still awake.
Daniel stayed beside her.
He told her an ambulance was coming.
But in the letter, he wrote that he believed she knew she wasn’t going to survive.
She had been holding Mr. Bunny.
Right before the end, she gave the rabbit to him.
And told him,
“Make sure Mr. Bunny gets home to my mommy.”
Daniel promised he would.
I read that sentence again.
And again.
I could barely see the page.
He wrote that he came to the funeral planning to return the rabbit.
But when he saw me standing beside the caskets, he couldn’t do it.
He convinced himself he would wait.
Until I was less broken.
Until there was a better moment.
But time passed.
Then, years later, I walked into his hospital room.
At first, Daniel hadn’t recognized me.
Then he heard my name.
He heard me speak about my husband.
About Josie.
And he realized exactly who I was.
He knew.
All that time.
He knew who I was.
He knew what Mr. Bunny meant.
And still, he said nothing.
Daniel wrote that he kept waiting for the perfect moment to tell me.
His illness made sure that moment never came.
So he hid the box.
Then told Lily to wait until one year after his death before giving it to me.
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