Chapter 9
That sentence tore through me.
Because it was exactly what Daniel had made me think.
I put my arm around her.
“You should never have had to carry that.”
“I didn’t want you to be sad.”
“I’m the parent. You don’t protect me from adult things.”
She leaned against my shoulder.
“Are you mad at him?”
“Yes.”
“Do you hate him?”
“No.”
“Would it be easier if you did?”
I laughed softly.
“Probably.”
She nodded.
Then after a while, she said, “I’m mad about Sundays.”
“Sundays?”
“He always acted like Sunday breakfast was his thing.”
I looked at her.
“What do you mean?”
“When my friends came over, he’d say, ‘We do pastries every Sunday.’ Like he planned it.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Lily smiled sadly.
“He didn’t even know where you bought them, did he?”
“No.”
“He told Madison’s dad he always got up early for them.”
This time I laughed harder.
Not because it was funny.
Because sometimes absurdity is the only doorway grief gives you.
“Dad hasn’t been awake before me on a Sunday since middle school,” Lily said.
We sat together until the porch light came on automatically.
That night, I understood something I had missed.
Daniel had not only taken my work for granted.
Over time, he had absorbed it into his identity.
Our organized family.
Our Sunday pastries.
Our remembered birthdays.
Our holiday traditions.
Our daughter who always had what she needed.
He experienced the results so consistently that he had forgotten there was a person producing them.
Maybe I had helped him forget.
I had made love look effortless.
Now effort was visible only because I had stopped hiding it.
The following Sunday, I woke at seven.
Daniel was already downstairs.
When I entered the kitchen, he was standing by the coffee maker.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
He looked toward the counter.
Empty.
No white box.
His eyes returned to me.
“Are you going to the bakery?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
I poured cereal.
He stood there another moment.
Then asked, “Do you want anything?”
“From where?”
“The bakery.”
I looked at him.
He knew.
That was why the question mattered.
“Blueberry muffin for Lily.”
“And you?”
“No, thank you.”
“What do you usually get?”
He had been married to me eighteen years.
I stared at him.
Daniel’s face reddened.
“I know it’s something with cinnamon.”
“Don’t worry about mine.”
He nodded slowly.
Then left.