I was 36 and tired to my very core. Five years earlier, I’d buried my wife, and after that it was just me and my daughter, Juniper, learning how to be a family of two.
She wasn’t rude, just watchful, as if she were waiting for a trick.
Junie was nine, quiet like she was saving her words for emergencies. She noticed everything, especially the things adults tried to hide behind cheerful faces, but that didn’t fool my daughter.
I didn’t think I’d ever love again. Then Maribel showed up and made the world feel less sharp around the edges.
Maribel laughed easily and filled rooms without even trying. She cooked for us, kissed my cheek in the kitchen, and called Juniper “sweet pea” like it was a spell. People told me I looked lighter, and I wanted that to be true.
Juniper didn’t warm up the way everyone promised. She wasn’t rude, just watchful, as if she were waiting for a trick. When Maribel leaned in too close, Junie’s shoulders went stiff.
Guests hugged me and said, “She would’ve wanted this.”