Two years after losing my wife, I believed I’d kept the promise I made to her by holding our family together. Then my youngest daughter revealed a secret Elena had left behind, and I realized one of my children had been carrying a burden I should’ve seen long ago.
The kitchen smelled like garlic, chicken, and the six carrots I’d chopped for two people.
“Dad,” Maya said from the island, “Matthew isn’t even home tonight.”
“I know.”
“So why are you making enough food for everyone?”
“Because your brother will be home tomorrow, and he’ll raid the fridge.”
I pointed the knife toward the carrots. “Nobody has ever regretted having extra roasted carrots.”
“Matthew isn’t even home tonight.”
“I’m 12, and even I know that’s not true.”
I laughed and went back to chopping.
Keeping my hands busy had become a habit after Elena died.
If something broke, I fixed it. If one of the kids mentioned being hungry, I cooked too much.
Doing things was easier than sitting still long enough to miss my wife.
“I’m 12, and even I know that’s not true.”
***
Elena and I had been married for eight years. When we met, she was already raising three kids on her own. Their biological father had disappeared when they were little. Maya had still been a baby.
I never thought of myself as taking another man’s place. I fell in love with Elena, then with Mackenzie, Matthew, and Maya.
I adopted all three.
They were mine.
I never thought of myself as taking another man’s place.
Two years earlier, Elena had gotten sick. It was sudden and aggressive, dividing our lives into before and after within months.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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