“And when you make a mistake, you don’t make her carry it.”
She named her daughter June.
No grand symbolic name.
No child assigned the work of replacing someone dead.
Just June, because Chloe said it sounded like warmth.
A week later, I stood in the doorway of Grandpa’s old bedroom while Chloe arranged tiny clothes in his dresser.
She had asked before moving upstairs.
Three times.
Finally, I told her once was enough.
The dark wood stayed.
So did his comfortable armchair.
The crib stood near the window overlooking the roses.
Chloe caught me looking around.
“Are you sure?”
I thought about the morning she arrived.
The sunglasses.
The moving truck.
The careless claim she had made because wanting something felt safer than admitting she needed it.
Then I thought about Grandpa’s strawberries.
“I’m sure,” I said.
Our parents sent one card.
It arrived without a return address, although we recognized Mom’s handwriting immediately.
