June was five.
They didn’t need a speech.
They needed certainty.
“You are my family,” I said. “You and your sister are the most real thing in my life.”
June rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “But Grandma took our food.”
“Yes,” I said. “She did.”
“Because some people think love is something they get to measure out. Like slices of cake. Like seats at a table.” I looked at them again. “But they are wrong.”
Sadie’s chin trembled. “Daddy didn’t help.”
For a moment, the road blurred.
“No,” I said quietly. “He didn’t.”
I drove to a small restaurant in Arlington with red booths, laminated menus, and no string quartet by the fountain. The hostess smiled at my daughters as if they were simply hungry children and not casualties of a family performance.
I ordered pancakes, chicken soup, grilled cheese, fries, chocolate milk, and two slices of strawberry pie. June’s dress still had a faint stain near the hem. Sadie kept touching her cheek, as if she could still feel the gravy there.
