But that night was different, and some part of me had known it since the moment I opened my eyes. I lay still and listened, the way you do when you’re not sure yet whether you want to hear what’s coming. A voice floated up from downstairs — his voice, but not the one he used for me, not even the one he used for the dog we’d lost two winters back. It was lower and slower, worn soft in a way I hadn’t heard in years.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” he murmured.
My fingers curled into my mother’s blanket before I remembered it wasn’t there anymore — it was just the guest quilt bunched under my hand. Then came the second sentence, the one that would not leave me alone for the rest of that night, or possibly the rest of my life:
“Daddy loves you too.”
