My daughter had said plenty of heartbreaking things since losing her dad, but this one stopped me cold. When I followed her gaze, I saw something I couldn’t explain.
I froze mid-step by the pool, one hand tight around my wine glass, staring at the back of Harold’s ear while my daughter’s voice looped through my head like a scratched record.
“Mommy, Daddy’s there.”
I couldn’t shake those words.
Let me back up.
My name is Alison. I’m 37, and a year ago, cancer took my husband, Mike, and left me alone with our daughter, Mia, who was three then and is four now. Most nights, she still asked, “When is Daddy coming home?”
Harold was Mike’s oldest and closest friend. Our families had known each other for about 10 years. But they had known each other longer.
Years of barbecues, fishing trips, and shared inside jokes.
He was also, conveniently or not, my boss at the firm.
After the funeral, Harold just showed up. Groceries, a new washer when mine died. Sitting cross-legged on the rug, building Lego castles with Mia while I napped on the couch from pure exhaustion. Or helping with something around the house.
