My daughter made me a paper tie for father’s day and said, “Wear it to my wedding”—26 years later

Once again, I clipped Ashley’s tie to my shirt.

I couldn’t touch them.

At the church, I sat beside my daughter’s coffin.

I held her hand and rubbed my thumb across her fingers, the way I used to when she was little and couldn’t sleep.

I kept thinking about all the times those hands had reached for mine.

Crossing streets.
Walking into kindergarten on her first day.
The night her heart got broken.
I held her hand.

Now, I sat there, knowing she’d never reach for me again.

I honestly didn’t know what I was supposed to go home to after that day.

Raising Ashley had been my whole life.

And now she was gone.

I lowered my head, and my fingers brushed against the little paper tie on my shirt.

Something crinkled softly inside the tie.

She’d never reach for me again.