“Does the distinction make this easier?”
“No.”
“Then don’t turn me into somebody heartless because you need this decision to hurt less.”
I looked down.
She was right.
I hated that too.
For a while, we listened to traffic move along the road beyond the neighborhood.
Finally, Claire said, “What did Sophie ask you at the funeral?”
I looked up.
“How do you know she asked me anything?”
“Because you’ve mentioned tying her shoe three times and never finished the story.”
I stared at the porch boards.
“She asked if I was leaving.”
Claire closed her eyes for a moment.
“What did you tell her?”
“That I wasn’t leaving that night.”
“And tomorrow?”
“I told her I’d be there.”
Claire nodded.
“And the next day?”
“I was there.”
A sad smile crossed her face.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The answer you keep telling me you don’t have.”
I felt anger rise again.
“That doesn’t mean I know how to raise a kid.”
“No.”
“It doesn’t mean I can give up my job.”
“No.”
“It doesn’t mean I can fix what happened.”
“No.”
“Then stop acting like this is obvious.”
“I’m not.”
She stepped closer.
“I’m saying you already know which promise you’re most afraid to break.”
That shut me up.
Inside the house, Sophie shifted.
Her rabbit slid to the floor.
Even asleep, she reached down until her fingers found it.
Claire watched through the window.
Then she looked at me.
“If you stay, I don’t know what happens to us.”
“I know.”
“If you come back, I don’t know what happens to her.”
“I know.”
“That’s why this is awful.”
For the first time all week, somebody had said something that fit.
Not inspiring.
Not hopeful.
Just true.
This was awful.
No choice repaired what had happened.
One choice simply decided where the damage landed next.
Claire slept in the guest room that night.
I slept in Evan’s recliner because Sophie had fallen asleep against my side again and I couldn’t move without waking her.
At 5:40 the next morning, I woke with a stiff neck and Hopper pressed into my ribs.
Sophie opened her eyes a few minutes later.
“Is Claire still here?”
“Yes.”
“Is she going home today?”
“Yes.”
“Are you?”
There it was again.
No drama.
No tears.
Just a six-year-old trying to learn whether adults could be trusted to remain where they said they would be.
I rubbed my face.
“No.”
Her expression did not change immediately.
“You’re not?”
“No.”