“Then one morning, after he married your mother, you climbed into his lap and fell asleep against his chest. When you woke up, you asked whether he knew how to make pancakes shaped like stars.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You were four.”
She rested the cutter on the table between us.
“He called me that afternoon. He was crying so hard I could barely understand him. He said he had made the pancakes. He said he had spoken Miley’s name aloud for the first time in years and had not fallen apart.”
I gripped the edge of the table.
“He did not give you something that belonged to his daughter,” Caroline added. “You gave him a way to remember her without believing the memory would kill him.”
Tears distorted the kitchen around me.
“Then what was the lie?”
Caroline turned toward the window.
“After your mother died, Frank packed his truck.”
