The brochure was dated nine years earlier, before Emma was born.
A handwritten note covered the back.
Daniel,
I visited Westbridge today. The campus is beautiful, but something felt wrong. I’ll explain when you’re home. Please remind me.
Love, Claire.
I read it three times.
I had been deployed during that period. Claire and I spoke whenever communications allowed, but conversations were often rushed and interrupted. I could not remember her mentioning Westbridge.
Why had she visited?
The next morning, Emma woke before sunrise.
For a moment, she looked confused by the camping mattress. Then memory returned, and her expression tightened.
“You don’t have to go to school today,” I said.
“Am I suspended?”
“No. I’m keeping you home.”
She considered that distinction.
“Can Maya know I’m okay?”
“We can call her mother after breakfast.”
While pancakes cooked, Emma sat at the counter drawing a house with a red roof. Beside it she drew three people: herself, me, and a woman in a yellow dress.
I had not seen her draw Claire in years.
“That’s Mom,” she said without looking up.
“I thought so.”
“Mrs. Gable said I use Mom to get attention.”
I turned off the stove.
“Missing someone is not a performance.”
“She said everybody loses people.”
“Everybody experiences sadness. That does not make your sadness less important.”
