June was five.
They didn’t need a speech.
They needed certainty.
“You are my family,” I said. “You and your sister are the most real thing in my life.”
June rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “But Grandma took our food.”
“Yes,” I said. “She did.”
“Why?”
“Because some people think love is something they get to measure out. Like slices of cake. Like seats at a table.” I looked at them again. “But they are wrong.”
Sadie’s chin trembled. “Daddy didn’t help.”
For a moment, the road blurred.
“No,” I said quietly. “He didn’t.”
I drove to a small restaurant in Arlington with red booths, laminated menus, and no string quartet by the fountain. The hostess smiled at my daughters as if they were simply hungry children and not casualties of a family performance.
I ordered pancakes, chicken soup, grilled cheese, fries, chocolate milk, and two slices of strawberry pie. June’s dress still had a faint stain near the hem. Sadie kept touching her cheek, as if she could still feel the gravy there.
When the food came, they stared at it.
“All of this is for us?” June asked.
“For you,” I said.
Sadie picked up a fry. “Can we eat until we’re full?”
I swallowed the ache in my throat. “Always.”
While they ate, I stepped three feet away, close enough to see them, far enough for them not to hear everything.
Then I made three calls.
The first was to my father.
He answered on the second ring. “Allison?”
“Dad,” I said. “It’s time.”
