His shoes were by the door.
His coffee mug was in the cabinet.
His jacket still hung over a chair.
I couldn’t move it.
Mia and Owen never met their father.
That fact settled inside me before they were even born.
Carol moved into our spare room 11 days after Daniel died.
When I finally held Mia and Owen, I loved them so completely that it frightened me.
Beneath that love was grief.
Daniel should have been there.
He should have counted their fingers.
He should have laughed when Owen screamed through his first bath.
He should have watched Mia fall asleep with one tiny hand curled against my chest.
Carol stayed.
She did the 2:00 A.M. bottle so I could sleep.
She washed the same four onesies over and over.
She held me when I cried in the laundry room after finding one of Daniel’s socks behind the washing machine.
