She was six when Nora died, with both front teeth missing, always wearing those scraped-up pink sneakers. She took the recordable bear I had given her for her last birthday everywhere, as if it were another heartbeat held against her chest.
“Grandma, listen,” she used to whisper, lifting the bear to my ear. “Mr. Buttons sings to me.”
“What does he sing, baby?”
“Mommy songs.”
After Nora was gone, those whispers grew quieter. Sadie began speaking to that bear more than she spoke to any of us.
Her father, Brent, broke down for a while. I will not pretend otherwise. For months, he sat at my kitchen table, a grown man with reddened eyes, moving food around on his plate. Father’sDay gifts
“I can’t do the drop-offs, Gracie,” he said once. “I can’t face those moms.”
“I’ll do them,” I offered. “I’ll watch Sadie after school, too. You just work.”
