“That’s my girl,” I said into her hair. “That’s exactly right. That’s exactly what you do.”
She pulled back and looked at me very seriously.
“Mommy,” she said, “you taught me that. In the car. After Aunt Rachel’s party. Remember?”
“I remember.”
“You said you’re allowed to say that’s not funny.“
“I did.”
“Every single time,” she said.
“Every single time,” I agreed.
She went off to find her brother. I stayed in the kitchen for a while by myself. I stood at the
counter where, a year ago, my husband’s phone sat face-down every night while I packed apple slices and told myself I was imagining things.
I wasn’t imagining things. I never was. Not with the bike, or the dress, or Kevin, or the dance at the
wedding, or the phone face-down on the counter.
I just spent my whole life letting other people tell me it was a joke.
