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, gripping my wine glass tightly, staring at the back of Harold’s ear while my daughter’s voice replayed in my mind like a scratched record.
“Mommy, Daddy’s there.”
I couldn’t get those words out of my head.
Let me go back.
I froze mid-step.
My name is Alison. I’m 37, and a year ago, cancer took my husband, Mike, leaving 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 around 10 years. But they had known each other longer than that.
Years filled with barbecues, fishing trips, and shared inside jokes.
