That tiny gesture felt like a miracle.
One Sunday in October, when the air already smelled like sweet bread and cold weather, Lily sat with me in the backyard. The sky was orange over the rooftops in our neighborhood. She had a blanket around her shoulders and her rag doll in her lap.
“Daddy,” she said.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Did Mommy know you were going to take care of me?”
Something tightened in my throat.
I looked at the photo of Claire by the door: her holding newborn Lily, with a tired, beautiful smile.
“Yes,” I said. “She knew.”
Lily rested her head against my chest.
“Because you promised her?”
I kissed her forehead.
“Because I promised her. And because you are the most important thing in my life.”
That night, after I put her to bed, I stood in the hallway looking at her half-open door.
For a long time, I believed losing Claire was the hardest thing I would ever survive.
