For months afterward, she called me constantly but rarely mentioned her father.
Maybe I had mistaken avoidance for strength.
“She misses him,” Gregory said.
“I know.”
“No. I mean she really misses him.”
I looked at him.
“She talks about him to you?”
“Sometimes.”
“What does she say?”
“That if Dad were still here, everything would be normal.”
The words stayed between us.
Normal.
As though grief were an interruption we should have completed by now.
As though Robert’s absence were a problem we had failed to solve.
“I can’t give her normal,” I said.
“I know.”
“And I shouldn’t have to pretend.”
“I know.”
When we reached Cape May, the town looked offensively beautiful.
Sunlight flashed against windows.
Bicycles leaned against porch railings.
Hydrangeas bent over garden fences.
The ocean breeze carried that familiar mixture of salt, sunscreen, and distant fried food.
Nothing in the town knew my family had changed.
