And endless questions.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Is he coming to my game?”
“Did we do something wrong?”
That last question came from six-year-old Leo.
“No, sweetheart.”
I said it immediately.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Someone had.
But it wasn’t him.
I had to learn everything Daniel had always handled.
Utilities.
Insurance.
Mortgage.
Banking.
Sometimes I lay awake furious.
Other nights I was simply numb.
Ben still asked for Daddy at bedtime.
“Daddy throw?”
He wanted that old routine.
Scoop.
Throw.
Shriek.
I tried once.
Nearly dropped him.
He cried.
What kept me moving was knowing seven boys were watching.
They were learning from me how someone survives something like this.
So I survived it.
The same day our divorce became final, Daniel texted me.
Claire and I are getting married next month. We hope the boys can come.
I read it three times.
Then put the phone away and unloaded groceries.
A few days later, Mom called.
She and Dad were planning to attend the wedding.
“We’re not taking sides,” she said.
“We don’t want to lose a daughter.”
“You’re busy losing me.”
She went silent.
Then she said,
“Claire deserves happiness too.”
I hung up.
Two days later, the wedding invitation arrived.
Fancy paper.
Gold lettering.
Claire Elizabeth Morrow and Daniel James Harper.
Garden ceremony.
Reception at the Willow Room.
Adults only.
I was about to tear the invitation in half when Elliot stopped me.
“Can I see it?”
He read every word carefully.
Then handed it back.
“Are we going?”
“No.”
“Did Dad ask us to?”
“Yes.”
Elliot just nodded.
“Okay.”
For weeks after Daniel left, Elliot became even quieter.
I found him looking through old photo albums.
He asked where I kept old birthday cards.
School drawings.
Report cards.
Hospital bracelets.
I thought he was grieving.
Only later did I understand.
He had been gathering something.
On the morning of Daniel and Claire’s wedding, I made chocolate-chip pancakes.
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