When Daniel told me about his late wife on our second date, he spoke the way people do when they have repeated the same painful sentence too many times.
“I have two daughters,” he said quietly. “Grace is six. Emily is four. Their mom died three years ago.”
There was something carefully controlled about him, like grief had taught him how to keep every emotion folded tightly inside himself.
I reached across the table and touched his hand.
“Thank you for telling me.”
He gave me a tired smile. “Some people hear that and decide dinner is over.”
“I’m still here,” I told him.
And I was.
The girls made it easy to stay.
Grace and Emily could not have been more different if someone had designed them that way on purpose.
Grace was thoughtful, serious, and strangely observant for a six-year-old. She watched people closely before deciding whether they deserved trust. When adults gave vague answers, she noticed immediately.
Emily, meanwhile, burst through life like sunshine with sticky fingers.
The first time I met her, she hid behind Daniel’s leg and stared at me suspiciously. A month later she climbed directly into my lap during story time and announced, “I sit here now,” as though the matter had already been legally finalized.
