“Did you like him?”
Owen said:
“Bed.”
Autumn laughed.
Lily ignored him.
She looked at Autumn.
“Dad is bad at dating.”
“Lily.”
“He told me.”
Autumn knelt slightly despite the dress.
“I think he did okay.”
Lily studied her.
Then noticed the book.
“That’s Mom’s.”
The kitchen went silent.
Owen looked toward his daughter.
“You remember it?”
“Of course.”
She took the book.
Opened it.
Saw Sarah’s handwriting.
Her face changed instantly.
“Dad.”
Owen crouched beside her.
“Autumn found it.”
“Where?”
“Bookstore.”
Lily looked at Autumn.
“You bought Mom’s book?”
Autumn’s eyes filled unexpectedly.
“Apparently.”
Lily hugged it against her chest.
Then hugged Autumn.
No warning.
Autumn froze.
Then slowly wrapped her arms around the little girl.
Owen looked away.
Too intimate.
Too painful.
Too much like hope.
He had learned to distrust hope because it could resemble replacement.
And nobody replaced Sarah.
Not ever.
But watching Autumn hold Lily did not feel like replacement.
It felt like something entirely new entering a room that still contained the old love.
That frightened him more.
Later, after Lily finally went upstairs, Autumn sat at the kitchen table with Owen.
Melissa had gone to bed but left the guest room ready.
Snow continued outside.
Midnight approached.
Autumn held a mug of tea.
Owen held coffee.
Neither drank much.
She asked:
“Tell me about Sarah.”
He looked toward her.
“You don’t have to.”
“No.”
“You asked.”
Owen thought.
“She was loud.”
Autumn smiled.
“That’s the first thing you say?”
“Yes.”
“She sang badly.”
“Loved Christmas.”
“Cried at commercials.”
“Could not cook eggs without destroying a pan.”
“Was she beautiful?”
Owen looked down.
“Yes.”
Autumn nodded.
“Cancer?”
“Breast.”
“Two years?”
“Almost three.”
“She died when Lily was five.”
Autumn whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
Owen had heard those words thousands of times.
From strangers.
Doctors.