Daniel had known he might never walk them into school.
He might never teach Owen to drive.
He might never see Mia graduate or meet the people they would someday love.
While I had been folding baby clothes and complaining about swollen ankles, he had been writing himself into their future.
At the bottom of the letter was one more line.
“And please don’t spend their birthdays mourning the man who isn’t in the photographs. Look at their faces. I’m there.”
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
The twins were on the floor beside me, still covered in birthday cake and fighting over a ribbon from the box.
Owen had Daniel’s smile.
Not something similar.
His exact crooked smile.
Mia had the same little crease between her eyebrows that appeared whenever Daniel was concentrating.
For the first time since he died, I looked at them without thinking only about everything he had missed.
