I had to look away.
Noah found me standing at the kitchen window, looking out at the yard where Claire used to push the little ones on the rope swing.
I had to look away.
"You okay, Dad?" he asked.
"I'll get there, son."
He stood beside me for a while without saying anything, which is the thing about him I've always loved most.
Matilda isn't Claire. She won't ever be Claire. But she carries pieces of her the way twins do.
The world declared Claire dead ten years ago. Everyone else has made their peace with that. Most days, so have I.
But on quiet nights, when the house is dark and the wind comes in off the water, I still find myself listening for the front door. Still half-expecting, after all this time, to hear her voice in the hallway.
Some part of me always will.
