My father flew up from Florida.
Megan’s aunt drove from North Carolina.
Claire did not come.
She and I had exchanged a handful of messages.
Kind ones.
Painful ones.
By then, kindness hurt less.
Before we entered the courtroom, my father pulled me aside.
“You know Evan never expected this.”
“I know.”
“He wouldn’t have wanted you to give up your whole life.”
I looked at him.
“I didn’t.”
Dad frowned.
“I changed it.”
He looked toward Sophie.
She was sitting beside Aunt Laura, swinging her feet and making Hopper nod during an apparently serious conversation.
Dad’s eyes filled.
“I should be able to do more.”
“You’re seventy-five.”
“I’m aware.”
“You send her ridiculous amounts of mail.”
“She likes mail.”
“You FaceTime her every Sunday.”
“I could do Tuesday too.”
I smiled.
“Do Tuesday.”
The hearing was straightforward.
The judge asked questions.
The attorney answered some.
I answered others.
Then the judge asked whether I understood that permanent guardianship meant accepting responsibility for Sophie’s care, education, medical decisions, finances and daily welfare.
“Yes.”
“Do you understand this is not simply an extension of temporary assistance following a family tragedy?”
“Yes.”
“Are you accepting this responsibility voluntarily?”
I looked at Sophie.
She was no longer making Hopper nod.
She was watching me.
“Yes.”
The order was signed shortly after.
Outside the courthouse, Sophie tugged my jacket.
“Are you my dad now?”
The question caught me completely off guard.
“No.”
She looked disappointed.
I knelt.
“You had a dad.”
“I know.”
“He loved you.”
“I know.”
“I’m not going to replace him.”
“What are you then?”
“I’m your uncle.”
“You already were.”
“Apparently I got promoted.”
“To what?”
I thought about it.
“The guy who stays.”
She considered that.
Then she nodded.
“Okay.”
My father turned away and pretended to study the courthouse architecture.
Two months later, Claire called.
I was assembling a bookshelf in what used to be Evan’s office.
Sophie was downstairs watching cartoons.
“How are you?” Claire asked.
“Currently losing a fight with Swedish furniture.”
“That sounds serious.”
“There are six screws left and no available holes.”
“Classic Daniel.”
We talked for twenty minutes.