It was the last big thing he ever gave our family.
One afternoon, while he had been standing beside the unfinished edge covered in dust and sweat, I told him:
“You basically built the kids an entire summer.”
Steve smiled.
“No.”
He looked at the pool.
“I built us a memory.”
At the time, I thought he was being sentimental.
After he died, I understood.
Every splash.
Every birthday barbecue.
Every floating toy.
Every afternoon when the kids forgot for an hour that their father wasn’t coming back—
Steve was there.
“Mom!”
My oldest jumped from the edge.
“Watch!”
“I’m watching!”
She cannonballed into the water.
The other three screamed with laughter.
I smiled.
Then I noticed movement beyond the fence.
Marlene.
Our next-door neighbor.
Standing at her window.
Watching us.
Not glancing.
Watching.
And the expression on her face made my smile disappear.
