right.”
Then he tugged awkwardly at the pink skirt.
“I figured there was one thing you couldn’t organize your way around.”
Daniel gave me a sad smile.
Despite myself, I laughed.
“You walking into your father’s funeral dressed like me at 23?”
“Exactly,” he said.
My laughter collapsed into tears.
Daniel knelt beside me.
“I’m sorry I stayed away, Mom.”
“I’m angry you did. But I understand why.”
“I’m sorry I stayed away, Mom.”
He nodded.
Then, very quietly, he said, “I knew all Dad’s stories.”
He looked down.
“I knew your passwords. I didn’t know if you still danced, Mom.”
Because I had made it easy.
“I knew all Dad’s stories.”
I remembered birthdays before anyone asked. Fixed problems before anyone noticed them. Said “whatever you want” so often that eventually nobody needed to wonder what I wanted.
“Sometimes,” I whispered, “it was easier to do everything myself than
