Chapter 10
On the second anniversary of the day I came home early, Lily asked to make breakfast.
She was four now. She stood on a sturdy step stool beside me while I mixed pancake batter. She poured the berries into a bowl and counted each one as it fell.
“Twenty-three,” she announced.
“There might be twenty-four.”
She found the last berry in the bottom of the carton and held it up triumphantly.
Grandma June arrived with flowers. Renee brought orange juice. Mrs. Davis came later, carrying a new duck book for Lily’s shelf. They had not planned a celebration around the date. They came because Saturday breakfast at our house had become a habit.
I remembered the little plate on the marble island and Lily crying in her high chair. I still remembered it clearly. I no longer had to stand inside that moment every time I entered the kitchen.
Lily helped me set out the plates. She placed her blue cup beside her seat.
“Can I have another pancake if I’m hungry?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“I might have three.”
“Then we’ll make enough.”
She grinned and ran to tell June.
After breakfast, we went to the park. Lily raced Renee to the slide, stopped halfway, and looked back at me.
“Daddy, watch!”
“I’m watching.”
She climbed to the top and slid down laughing. Then she ran to a group of children she knew from preschool. She asked to join their game without checking whether I would follow.
I stayed on the bench beside June.
“She’s growing,” June said.
“She is.”
“And you let her.”
“I had good help.”
June squeezed my hand.
Later that afternoon, I took Lily to the small garden behind June’s house. Ava’s rosebush was flowering. Lily carried a watering can that was almost too full for her. She poured carefully around the roots, then asked me to tell her the story of how Ava planted it.
“She wanted a flower she could come back to every year,” I said. “She and your grandma put it here together.”
“Did Mommy like red?”
“She loved it.”
Lily touched one petal with the tip of her finger.
“I like blue.”
“I know.”
“Mommy can like red. I can like blue.”
“Yes, you can.”
She set down the watering can and took my hand.
I thought about how afraid I had been that Lily’s early years would always be shaped by losing Ava and by what happened with Vanessa. Those things were part of her story. They were not all of it.
She liked blue paint, duck books, berries, and racing Renee at the park. She could tell a teacher when something belonged to her. She knew how to ask for food and how to welcome people into a game. She knew she had a mother who loved her, and she knew the people here would listen when she called.
That evening, June and Renee stayed for dinner. Mrs. Davis had gone home to her family. Lily sat at the table telling us about a pretend bakery she wanted to build in the living room.
“I’ll sell pancakes,” she said.
“For how much?” Renee asked.
“Two hugs.”
“That’s a good price,” June said.
When Lily grew sleepy, she asked me to read the new duck book. I carried her upstairs and settled beside her bed.
At the end of the story, the duck found its family by following their voices. Lily closed the book herself.
“Daddy?”
“Yes?”
“If I call, you hear me?”
“I hear you.”
“And if you’re at work?”
“Renee or Grandma or Mrs. Davis will hear you. And I’ll come when I can.”
She considered that answer. Then she tucked her rabbit under the blanket.
“Okay.”
I kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes without asking me to keep the door open.
Downstairs, I found June washing the last dishes and Renee putting away the toys. I helped them finish. When they left, the house was quiet.
Before going to bed, I checked on Lily. She was asleep, one hand resting on her rabbit.
May you like
I stood there a moment, grateful for the people who had helped her feel safe enough to sleep, and for the brave little girl who had learned to trust her own voice.
Then I turned off the hall light and went to bed, knowing she would call if she needed me.
