Neighbors brought casseroles.
People hugged me and murmured words I could not keep in my mind.
Through all of it, the four kids stayed pressed close to my legs like ducklings terrified of losing their last parent.
The first morning after the burial, Joan climbed into my lap before sunrise. “Daddy, are you going to get sick too?”
“No, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
Jeremy shuffled in behind her, dragging the blanket Sarah had sewn his name onto.
He said nothing.
He simply climbed up and pressed his cheek against my chest.
Julie stood watching from the doorway.
“Daddy, who’s going to braid Joan’s hair for school?” she asked.
“I’ll learn,” I told her. “Give me a week. I’ll be terrible at first.”
“Mom did a fishtail.”
“Then I’ll learn a fishtail.”
Joyce slipped past her sister and pulled at my sleeve.
“Can we eat cereal for breakfast?” Joyce asked. “Mom always made pancakes on Saturdays, but I don’t want pancakes today.”
“Cereal it is.”
I poured four bowls and watched them eat without speaking.
The kitchen, once the noisiest room in the house, felt as quiet as a library.
And I had no idea how I was supposed to keep myself and my children from falling apart.
That afternoon, I tried to fold a load of laundry and ended up sitting on the floor with one of Sarah’s sweaters pressed to my face.
I cried until I could barely breathe.
Then I wiped my eyes because Jeremy came in looking for his stuffed rabbit.
“Are you sad, Daddy?”
