But Claire wasn't there.
I told myself she'd gone into the water. I scanned the waves, shielding my eyes against the glare, waiting for her to come up laughing.
That's when I noticed Noah standing at the shoreline, perfectly still, pale as chalk.
Claire wasn't there.
"Where's your mom?" I asked.
He didn't answer. He just stared at the water.
By sunset, half the beach was searching.
By midnight, the police were calling it a possible drowning. They combed those waters for four days. They never found her body, and the world eventually decided that meant she was gone.
I could have walked away. I was 29. No ring on my finger. No legal ties to those children.
They never found her body.
People expected me to grieve quietly for a few weeks and then get on with my life. Some of them even told me so.
But I looked at six kids sitting in a church pew at Claire's memorial, the youngest one asking me in a whisper where her mommy went, and I made a decision I've never once regretted.
